you might need to pick my dead body up off the ground while the supporters cheer and the protestors wail and their guns pour smoke out the barrels.
you might need to bail me out when i have welts on my head and dried blood in my hair and in a trail down my nose.
you might need to drive to washington dc to pick me up after the march has concluded and nothing has been changed but it happened and we didn’t let it die.
you might need to get me from the hospital with spray paint on my hands and nightstick bruises all over my chest, welts on my black eyes and two less teeth in my gums.
you might need to follow me from the office of the trucking company where i slashed their tires and they’ve called the cops and aren’t letting me off easy and are calling me terrorist.
you might have to pull me out from under the tires of the paddywagon and undo the handcuffs i locked to people on both my sides.
you might need to wash oil from my eyes and nostrils and earlobes and from my tongue because you found me drowning in the spill.
you might need to bring me food because we all gave it to all the starving people who were somehow worse off than us.
you might need to watch me get torn to pieces by the mob because you knew i would never join them.