When I look at your face

I see my brother.

My little brother,

cocky, young, naïve…

And I see innocence.

.

Testing out the world,

stretching your soul out

reaching your tendrils to try and grasp onto something

that maybe you’ll understand.

.

The world doesn’t understand you.

How quickly we forget that we were once ignorant,

that we were once trying to make sense

of the world, and how we fit into it.

.

How quickly we forget

that we acted out like children,

even when we weren’t children.

.

Judgment is passed so fast

that we can barely assess our own souls,

our own choices,

before the blow hits you.

Before the bullet hits you.

Before the Bullet hit You.

.

I see your face,

and you look just like my brother,

just a different color.

.

It hurts to write this

because I see him lying on the ground,

innocent, destroyed.

Bleeding out the images of what others superimposed onto him.

Bleeding out the nasty pictures of people who feel it necessary to tarnish an image of a person they never met.

Bleeding out from hate and horrible words thrown around like they were candy at a parade.

.

Thick skin from family

does not repair after a bullet passes through

their only child.

A wound in the heart sits there forever,

infected,

and never forgotten.

.

And still,

we are insensitive.

And still,

We Are Ignorant.

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