I am Black and on Death Row In Florida
they said justice
but meant
just us
and here I sit—
a roach in a cage of light,
the hum of the air thick
with bleach and lies.
my skin
was the evidence.
my eyes—guilty.
no rich man ever came
this far south
to die
in a room this cold.
I write with broken pencils
and dream of rain,
the kind that doesn't stop.
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