I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It packages things into marketable pieces,

In hopes that it will be easier to swallow,

With a glass of milk and some cookies.

I know a butcher when I see one.

They are so numb to the screams of their victims,

They mistake it for Beethoven's Symphony.

I know a hunting ground when I see one.

It looks like white sidewalks,

And black streets,

And dark alleyways,

And my house...

Stuck in the middle of a predominantly white neighbourhood.

I know fear when I see it.

I've felt it for so many years,

It follows me like Little Bo Peep's sheep.

I know disgust when I see it.

It comes out in shades of racism and sexism,

And settles within internment camps,

And hangs over poplar trees.

I've never seen regret before.

I've only ever seen "Get over it" before.

I've only ever seen "Go back to Africa" before.

I've only ever seen "Why is everything about race" before.

When did it ever stop being about race?

My name is Mary,

But it's not the name I would've picked.

It's too easy to swallow,

Not enough syllables to butcher or slaughter.

I would've picked something so ethnic,

It would blow the ships travelling the Middle Passage

Out of the water.

That every time I uttered my name,

Scenes of regret would flood the membrane.

In Africa, your last name is derived from your tribe.

In America, your first name is irrelevant,

And nicknames are all that matters.

Nicknames sit nicely on white picket fences,

And don't take up too much space

In between the blurred lines of

Patriarchy and Misogyny and White Girl Feminism.

They try to convince me that we are living in a post racial society,

But I've seen what Jim Crow has given birth too.

He might have left the nest a long time ago,

But the hawks and vultures have settled in,

Taking us out one by one,

Then devouring all that is left of us,

As if the only accomplishment a black boy can have

Is to be remembered as being shot by a white officer!

Why is it that no matter how much we give

They always come back wanting more?

What will happen when I have no more to give?

Then what will they come for?