"Too high to riot. That's my best excuse for being lazy."

-J. Cole

Man, I

wish I was good

with my

hands.

Because

if you aren't good with your hands,

fam,

you

better keep that thing tucked

as a

backup plan.

Drug

dealer daddy's heavy hands hurt

when he

hits me. I should replicate

that

madness. I should

stay

away.

Give them

time. Peddle 'round

the city

until they miss me. Until someone else's mother

shouts

that it's too late for me

to be out

There are

only a handful of things you need to build a bicycle from scratch:

free time, spare cash, and YouTube tutorials. Fathers are considered

optional,

at best.

At the

indoor amusement park, the boy whose sister's quinceañera I attended

threatened to jump me for street credit

I don't

have -

he needs

more than me -

he needs

than

me -

or more

than I do.

Headstrong.

Dead

wrong.

The

infrared bong leaves my head

stung.

Eyes as bloodshot as red

rum, and

sends me past outer space, heaven, and into the dimension

of the

next ones.

There is

no amusement at the amusement park.

But I was

good enough with my hands

that they

left me alone. Even on the days, everyone said they jumped the other

white kids. If we had taken better care

of these

hands, we wouldn't have all of this

pain to

take with our pills after dinner.

We

wouldn't have all this pain

to take

to the grave.