The fact that as a Black communist trapped in the imperial core once by poverty, twice by a generation mired in “non-violence” rhetoric typically spouted by Black Capital misleaders, and thrice by chronic, lifelong mental disorder, even the mere act of ‘finding joy’ is enough to potentially get the settler regime’s property enforcement called to turn me into a chalk outline if I do it outside the walls of my own house. My fate is either to be at the hands of a cop, a neo-klansman, or an intersection of the two; and no one will avenge me. A couple electrons through a fibre tube at best.

I’ve known this since I was six, and I contemplate self-erasure every goddamn day. “What’s your excuse”, please fuck out of here with that.