To the Boy that Killed My Friend

To the boy that killed my friend,
I don’t hate you.
For months, yes, I did in my anger and grief.
I yelled at you, cursed you, sometimes I still do
when I cross that fateful Marshfield street.
For a year I tried to understand you,
I tried to imagine your grip on that trigger
and how you slept that night with sounds of sirens
rushing past to clean up your mess.

But whenever I imagined
all I could see is him.
A kid.
Facing the barrel of a gun
held by another kid.
Not in this country, you’d think…
not here, you’d think.

To the boy that killed my friend,
I don’t pity you.
For months, I wished his same
lonely, fate upon you
hoping you get what you “deserve”
but who truly deserves that?
Through eyes engulfed by tears,
I’d cry aloud for vengeance, for answers.
Yet, silence remained.

But then I remembered
that blood
that blood that now has been washed
clean from the street
will remain with you,
stained into your conscience.
For you must now live regretfully with something
more painful than death’s immediate relief.

To the boy that killed my friend
I do not fear you.
Maybe once I shivered at the dream
of your all-too-steady trigger finger
pressing again, again, again.
And then silence.

But that has stopped and all I can see
is you, or how I imagine you
a trembling child as fearful as he is feared
holding a gun bigger than his own hand
hoping his purpose, his meaning, his life
will come with each consecutive shot.

To the boy that killed my friend
I do not know you.
Maybe I could assume or guess
that you didn’t look much different than him
but I don’t know that.
You live only as an idea, a representation
of life’s quick cruelty and evil, uncontrolled.

But that’s not who you are.
And I don’t know who you are.
I know you have a mother.
I know you have a name.
I must believe you have experienced love.
And for a year I have tried to see you,
understand you as more than just this choice.

To the boy that killed my friend,
I don’t blame you.
For too long I have hated you.
I have seen you as other, evil, worthless
but I can no longer hold that excruciating hate within me.
But instead each day I must let go
and live forever in his memory instead of my pain.
I hope that this moment has defined your life
not so you live in fear and shame
but that you hold precious each breath and hope for change.
For you deserve this hope, this chance
because my friend can never have it again.

To the boy that killed my friend,
I love you.
Not out of my own will or choice
for with those alone I have hated you
but because in moments like this there’s nothing left
nothing left but to recklessly love in hope’s that
things will change and that you will be the
last
the only
boy that will ever kill my friend.


Please read my original poem dedicated to Omar here: https://mackenseycarter.com/2013/09/04/omar/

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Michael Brown: A Life for A Box of Cigars

Outrage In Missouri Town After Police Shooting Of 18-Yr-Old Man

Brown skin, still warm from the Missouri heat
lying, lifeless, on the asphalt
only the swarms of unwanted flies
show any concern for this young boy’s body.

“Get the fuck on the sidewalk”
These all too familiar words
spat thoughtlessly out at the boys
from behind the badge of authority.

Such a fateful moment when one
decided to treat another as less than.
One moment where disobedience
snatched the breath from a young boys lungs.

One shot rang out above the buzz of midday summer
a warning, an assertion
of power, of disgust.
A shot that changed protector into aggressor.

Hands raised in surrender
like he learned to do since boyhood.
screams of “I don’t have a gun”
filled the thick, questioning air.

For his body before it lay, lifeless on
the cracked, burning asphalt
was enough of a weapon, enough of a threat
to warrant suspicion, assumption, death.

For the police officer was not what killed him
this boy lay crushed under years of hate
years of injustice, years of suspicion.
This boy was born with this crushing fate.

Brown skin, still warm from the Missouri heat.
A boy, dead, abandoned, hunted over a box of cigars.
Fifty dollars is the price of this boy’s life.
And for this price this black body was sold to the Missouri asphalt.

(Photo by Scott Olson/Getty Images)