The lines here weren’t mapped—
they were stomped in
by boots bloodier than yours.
They land like they own it,
helmets loud like gold teeth,
rifles slung casual,
like anyone here
asked for backup.
They don’t know these streets—
never felt the heat of tar
melt through busted soles,
never walked past five kinds of sirens
and knew which one meant run.
But here they come—
tanks on borrowed pavement,
eyes hidden behind mirrored glass,
asking questions
with fingers resting too easily on triggers.
Some call it order.
Some call it safety.
But we’ve seen order.
It has a leash.
It has a badge.
It speaks in citations,
not checkpoints.
Here, safety’s a neighbor
who watches your door
while you sleep.
Not a camo-slick stranger
who thinks every kid with a backpack
is one bad day away
from headlines.
We live here.
We bleed here.
And we don’t salute for free.
This city—
if you want to call it that—
doesn’t scare easy.
It’s been broken
by things far quieter than you.
And when you’re gone—
and you will be gone—
we’ll still be here,
sweeping glass off stoops,
shaking ash from our hair,
teaching our kids
not to flinch
at tremors.
