Police chase me through my dreams all night long
and I wake up drenched in sweat and sirens.
I wake up feeling like the handcuffs are still on me
and the jail cell is still standing all around me.
I want to get up, but these petty curmudgeons
are especially tough and take vandalism oh so seriously.
I’ve always been curious as to why property matters so much
but people matter so little, it’s like brittle bones are punching bags
and incarceration is a running gag.
The punchline fits like a knot in my stomach or a fist to my face,
and I feel like I’m being bullied in the lunch line once again.
I’ve befriended pens, and markers, and cans of spray paint,
but I can hear a faint whisper in the wind. It smells like sirens
and whimpers making hate, it breaks like hymens made of wicker.
No more stickers, no more handstyles, no more bubble letters,
just the smell of leather boots on my neck,
the taste of fascist disrespect,
and police chasing me
through my dreams
all night long.