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“After the funeral, I see him everywhere. Every time a man is shot in the head. I see him between the couch cushions. The blunt’s end, in Jamaica drinking a Red Stripe on a patch of grass, in a backyard drunk with witches dancing to Motown. Screaming from my mouth. In my lupus diagnosis. Laying in the cracks of my knuckles. Knock, knock, who’s there?” — Siaara Freeman
After the funeral, I see him everywhere. Every time a man is shot in the head. I see him between the couch cushions. The blunt’s end, in Jamaica drinking a Red Stripe on a patch of grass, in a backyard drunk with witches dancing to Motown. Screaming from my mouth. In my lupus diagnosis. Laying in the cracks of my knuckles. Knock, knock,
who’s there?