I wipe my feet before I walk the street.
Even though 8mile doesn’t have a welcome mat. I’m home.
Roaming my living room that’s congested with street lights and stop signs. Cluttered with corner stores and snake eyes as the street moves furniture under pig noses.
My fresh pair of kicks carry me from block to block as I live the only life I was taught.
My red, white, and black Adidas high tops encase my size sixteen feet. Protecting me from the sharp looks people glitter my path with. They hide my feet and my fears in the soles of the shoes I paid way too much for.
But in a world where appearance matters more than your intellect, I sacrifice my wallet. Throw it into the flames along with my morals and education. Because as long as I have my Jordan’s, my thoughts won’t matter.
My rights won’t matter.
My shoes hide my fears. They paint the façade that I have more money in my pockets than the investment in my future. And it’s true.
My white bread stacks higher than the streets’ door way. But it’s temporary. A temporary fix to the fear that I won’t see twenty-five. That every day may be my last.
My Nikes allow me to blend in with the black and white world I live in. The same society that says I can’t be respected and educated at the same time. That I can’t be a man and keep the door to the streets locked. My life style makes sure that I’m a trending topic.
But 8mile was the only one welcoming me with open arms. So with black face and zipped hoodie, I stroll the red streets. Everyday hoping, I don’t get shot.