Dirty Hands

his back pinned against 

a white chipped garage

knees pressed to his hairless chest

trying to make himself small and invisible 

cracked pavement weaves through the dark alley 

the only light from the crescent moon

wind slapping his bare scalp

his breath, quick and irregular

nails digging into palms

eyes full of tears watching

dark blood runs close to his muddy shoes

another brother gone

large heavy footsteps circulate the

limp body on the ground

monstrous hands steadily grip the gun  

his own hands, tiny, trembling  

sinister laughter fills his adolescent ears

a life taken in front of his eyes

all because of respect

I thought we were brothers 

does this mean he will turn on me too?

gunshot still ringing through his ears 

legs quivering 

shaking his head trying to understand 

Is this what brothers do?

filth built under nails

protruding veins trying to escape 

concrete skin

are dirty hands all we have?

sweat dripping on his brow

shoulders slumped over

inspecting his own young fists

I thought we were brothers

I thought we were brothers

This poem is about: 
Our world
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