Sister, with the weight of my subjugation upon her, stands barefoot upon the ruins of a metropolis built on male conflict, my conflict, and still yet screams in my face, "WE CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT OUR LIVES." I have spoken words I would condemn, having upheld different oppressions. An offense I cannot disown, I may as well have fired the shots flying through my aunt's home. My incensed rage is directed at myself for failing to recognize that this work deals with a crime against a woman and her property and that my dead Black male body represents a greater loss to this economy than that of a Black woman, the opposite picture of human life, ever could