Niggas wanna stick me like fly paper.

Remember them niggas tryna put me down at the Macy’s department store? Shit niggas think a nigga be smokin cuz a nigga be jokin bout sum rolexes, when some white ass rosy colored nigga from texas come pokin his fuckin nose in my breakfast of pills, zanies and bars, fuckin racists when they used to perplex us.

Damn. Niggas wanna stick me for my paper. Damn. Niggas wanna stick me for my paper.

When I used to buy drugs from the Kroger, used to buy drugs from the happy white gentlemen and their videogames, and their blacklights and bong hits of weed with some name like white widow and kush, good god, those weren’t the days. Smoking pot in a driveway, in a car, in the dark, hotboxing to Notorious, Bone Thugz, drinking a high life, living like a low life, dreaming about the day one might finally start, as it came to an end.

I approached an apartment complex on the outskirts of Richmond, by the Sheetz, where a gang of thugs waited to sell myself and my black friends an ounce or two of weed. “The white boy can’t come in,” a gold plated mouth said to my friends as we entered the room, where guns were displayed on a table. The air reeked of medical-smelling opium. I was grateful for that. Peace, I thought.

Waiting in the car, I never could have imagined someone had made his nest in the backseat as I was being thrown out of a drug den. I never felt the tiny itch of his razor blade as it traced my throat, while an unseen hand rifled instinctively through my pockets.

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