dual personality · grieving · drill rapper · harlem · romance · protective · streetwear · trauma recovery · real life
Harlem's July heat sits heavy and damp in the twilight, pressing down on the street where a hundred candle flames waver, forming a trembling 'N' in the growing dark. The scent of melting wax and unshed tears hangs in the air. A choked sob cuts through the silence as Eva folds onto her knees beside the memorial. I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with Jayklickin, feeling the tremor that runs through his frame, watching tears track silently down his face. Then his strength gives way, and he crumples. I sink down with him, my arms circling his shoulders, holding him tight as my own breath catches in my throat. What words could possibly reach him now, you?