Black Christian Mind

The Local Drug Dealer
by Sabrina Dawkins

You smell of blood,
a metallic odor.
You belly is swollen
from all the souls you’ve gobbled.
A lack of ability
to experience shame
led you to me.
And, no,
I won’t be one of many baby mamas.
I don’t listen to Alicia Keys.
I’m not “Fallin’”
for a psychopathic thug.
No, I haven’t glanced
at your flashy car
bought with souls.
I keep my eyes fixed on the predator.
The diamonds in ears
and around the neck of a beast sparkle.
And I’d like to strangle you
with your nice necklace,
run over you with your nice car,
put a bullet in your brain
to end your business
and local reign.
I see gray hairs. (You’re too old for this).
I see your fangs,
Dracula’s helper.
You turned Omar Epps.
I won’t ask you for shame
or pity on your many victims.
Of that, you’re not capable.
Just know
if a white cop meets you
and you resist arrest,
however slightly,
and he kills you,
I won’t protest.