Dear Trayvon Martin,
Your hands are cold when we touch,
but there's something that keeps me coming back to you.
Maybe it's the magnetic pull of our melanin
that forces me into what used to be your existence.
They don't see you the way I do,
like a warrior fighting to break the barriers of an
impenetrable system.
So I'll love you like no one else will.
Our son
may have your eyes
and childish dreams,
and I'll love him the way I love you,
more than I know how.
But is it enough to make him believe
this world doesn't hate him?
When is it okay to let you go
and believe that tomorrow won't carry
the scent of what you should have become?
My daughter might have your lips
while a piece of your heart swims in her lungs.
I've never met you,
but I love you like I do.
Because when they see me,
they see you.