I imagine that the last breath that escapes my chest would be produced from a bullet.

Not from me protecting my family from an intruder or being caught in the crossfire of a deranged active shooter.

But just because I am.

Because I exist in this shade of skin I am at risk.

Several fragments of metal will rip my being asunder as I grasp at the explanation as to why my lungs are filling with blood.

While my knees grow weak and my body grows cold like the stares I receive in public when I voice my opinion.

My mouth gaping trying to produce words, but all that forms are more puddles of blood as my face lay shaking on concrete.

I hope in that final moment that I can see the universe.

I want to quantify how insignificant we all are.

My mind expanding faster than the speed of the bullet that created the keyhole to my death.

Exhaling the moment my ancestors come into my vision.

I just hope.

Before that day comes I get a chance to fulfill my mission.

Which is

To live.

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