KIOSK 62
RED Black. Black. Black running into Red. My hands are red, my shoes are red, slick with the red from my side. My side is red, and running down my black pants, it stains my black hands, it stains my
NIYA MCADOO
eyes as all I see is black faces. Red is red, and black is black. My black is black like hot asphalt in July, burning my feet as I run. Run from blue. My black is the bottom of the unknown ocean, cold and full of the forgotten. White. White. White. White hits me with Red. It holds my face down with black shiny shoes, and hits me with black shiny steel. White is the shouts I heard telling me to put my hands up, and when I do red hits me anyway. Black. Black. Black. Black is what I see behind my closed eyes. Black is all I’ll ever be.
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