My heart is a Molotov cocktail,
Fuelled by climate
change and oil wars,
With a dash
of paraffin from shack fires
And the
ridiculous number of bricks
in a rich suburb’s
garden walls
is the grit that makes it spread and stick.
The mouth
of the bottle is stoppered
with every word swallowed
pretending not to hear the catcalls.
The air gap
at the top
to keep it explosive
is all the breathing, stopped
by another racist cop.
Dear people,
My heart
is a Molotov cocktail,
And it’s
just waiting for all of yous
To rise up and
light the fuse.
