If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot.
A police boot.
Imagine its sturdy leather; its handsome shoelaces, wearing a double-knotted smile; its ringed eyes peeking out underneath a blue hem.
Imagine the crust of salt on its sole. Imagine the residue of tear gas, muffled, screaming, beneath its polished mask. Imagine the stench of last breaths clinging to its hide. The final pleas of the dying that decay between its teeth. Imagine the imprint of black throats in the rubber.
The taste of black sweat on its tongue.
The blood of black men on its hands.
Imagine it in a glass cage, empty and unused and fraying. Imagine the small card in front of it. The little black text. In the corner, the numbers '2020'.
Imagine relief.
A police boot.
Imagine its sturdy leather; its handsome shoelaces, wearing a double-knotted smile; its ringed eyes peeking out underneath a blue hem.
Imagine the crust of salt on its sole. Imagine the residue of tear gas, muffled, screaming, beneath its polished mask. Imagine the stench of last breaths clinging to its hide. The final pleas of the dying that decay between its teeth. Imagine the imprint of black throats in the rubber.
The taste of black sweat on its tongue.
The blood of black men on its hands.
Imagine it in a glass cage, empty and unused and fraying. Imagine the small card in front of it. The little black text. In the corner, the numbers '2020'.
Imagine relief.
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