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Literature

Never Forget the Wounds

They poisoned our whiskey, during Prohibition's gleam, bottles laced with death by the government's hand, the bootlegger's breath turned to gasping screams in 1920s back alleys, like wolves culling their own pack in the dark. We drank the lies, one drop at a time, while men in black suits wrote the recipe. And then Tuskegee bled like an open wound, forty years of syphilitic horrors hidden under a white coat, 1932 to 1972, brothers used like lab rats, their blood rotting from within while the world turned its back, watching their bodies decay under the guise of care. And I remember, how they chased King like a hunted animal, FBI agents sinking their teeth into his peace, surveillance tapes slithering through his life, leaving venomous threats, telling him to die before he could dream, to let his blood spill onto Memphis streets. 1950s, 60s, '68. They shot his heart but never silenced his voice. Operation CHAOS, another black scar, spying on our souls, our cries for justice twisted