What if abolition isn’t a shattering thing, not a crashing thing, not a wrecking ball event? What if abolition is something that sprouts out of the wet places in our eyes, the broken places in our skin, the waiting places in our palms, the tremble holding in my mouth when I turn to you? What if abolition is something that grows?
“YOU WERE FRANTIC AND FOOLISH, YOU KEPT NO TRACK OF TIME, YOU RAN YOUR DELICATE BODY INTO ITS NATURAL END,
YOU BURNED ALL YOUR CANDLES TO STUMPS, YOU ARE TIRED AND HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO LAY DOWN,
YOU HAVE EARNED THIS REPERCUSSION, THIS REWARD, THIS RECKONING,
YOU FINALLY NEED TO KNOW