For How Long Must We.... Poem by Frankline Shem O.

This poem was found in a bullet wound. Recite at your own risk.

They say we're free.
But when we scream, they answer with bullets.
When we kneel, they stomp our necks.
When we hold signs, they tear gas our breath
and say we were provoking them.

They say it's "crowd control."
But we counted the bodies.
The only thing controlled
was the stench of gunmetal hanging in the air.

And our pulse—
a quiet flatline.

They shoot into crowds
like we're clay pigeons.
Then tell the cameras
we were violent.
As if silence wasn't already killing us.
As if asking not to die
is an act of war.

They come at night.
No warrant, no badge, no mercy.
They blindfold.
They drag.
They disappear.
Some come back
with bones rearranged like broken promises.
Some don't come back at all.

And still,
they call themselves protectors.

They protect the silence.
Protect the lie.
Protect the boot on our throat
and call it peace.

They bash skulls
like they're cracking coconuts.
You can hear it—
on livestream.
Crunch.
Scream.
Signal lost.

This isn't fiction.
This isn't a dystopian show.
This is someone's reality
looping like static
in a country you forgot to pray for.

You say: Not all of them.
But it only takes one—
to shoot.
To lie.
To plant a weapon after the breath is gone
and write the report before the blood is dry.

They say we're angry.
We're not angry.
We're haunted.

Haunted by the last text
before the phone went cold.
By the voice note that said they're coming
and then static.

How long
must we piss on ourselves
from the beatings,
beg God through broken teeth,
confess to crimes never heard of
just to breathe another day?

They buried protestors in unmarked graves
then blamed the rain
for why we couldn't find them.

They say we are instigating.
But who started the war?
Was it the boy with the cardboard sign
or the riot cop with armour and rage?

They brought rifles to a revolution of paper.
Teargas to a drama festival.
Armored trucks to marches with candles.
Then asked us why we burn things.

We burn because we buried.
We buried friends.
We buried hope.
We buried proof.
We buried everything but our voice—
and even that,
they're trying to shoot out of our throats.

So ask again:
For how long?
How long?
before a riot becomes a prayer?
Before a name becomes a spark?
Before the world stops watching
and starts screaming too?
How long?
before this poem becomes law?
Before they carve these words into the walls
of the stations they used to torture us?
How long?
before they realize—
we're not asking anymore.
We're remembering.
And we never forget.