Punching the Air

by Ibi Zoboi

know the courtroom ain’t the set of a music video, ain’t Coachella or the BET Awards, ain’t MTV, VH1, or the Grammys But still there’s an audience of fans, experts, and judges Eyes watching through filtered screens seeing every lie, reading every made-up word like a black hoodie counts as a mask like some shit I do with my fingers counts as gang signs like a few fights counts as uncontrollable rage like failing three classes counts as being dumb as fuck like everything that I am, that I’ve ever been counts as being guilty

yelling to the sky punching the air to let everyone and everything know that we are in here still alive

And maybe there are small cracks in our walls and we start to see a sliver of light shine through in each other