This is not about Protest

Today is a mirror of its own self
I protest, cigarette stubbed into hand

Driving late at night
the guilt flows from my veins
blood oozing from wrists
slashed open through wires
of change-less-ness

I stand, mid-road, naked
cars pass, their lights on high beam,
unaware, unresponsive.
Thrown stripped from a bus
I lie-
mangled and manhandled.
My cry is a savagery
released into the night that
does not stop, does not have time
to care.

I rest my case, my body.
In death, there is no peace,
no protection from vengeance that
rots like my bones, my skin.

'Fearless' they name me
and yet I am scared
of passing into another realm,
outside of memory, and consciousness-
conscience hardly applicable anymore.

I refuse to be pleased
with the outrage, immodest still
with my last breath.

The ceasing of my speech
is when you cease to notice.