Hands in the Air

I did not know how else to say I wanted to live
except to put my hands up slowly.
My work keys next to my car keys next to my house keys
heavy in my baby hands.
I stared death in the face
and said my name my job my age my purpose for being out alive next to a car that was mine trying to make it home.
He decided my fate
& that was the last time I wore a hoodie a night
parked away from the door did not check the security cameras for police before I closed work did not walk with my hands in my pockets
did not dare to to forget I was Black.

Did not dare to forget I was wanted
dead.

I stayed inside after that.
Except for the necessary commutes
I did not keep trying supposed gods
in police uniforms.

My world became small.

I learned to use the stairs instead of elevators smile when I didn’t want to stop wearing backpacks have the Christian radio station on call not go for walks always use a shopping cart drive on roads with lights never look lost keep breathing through through traffic stops with my hands out of the window
like there wasn’t a bounty on my head
& a death certificate with my name on it.

I was a baby. Eighteen in this new country
sitting in therapy untangling the indescribable.

My therapist wanted me to try to leave my house
& I wanted to survive.