A friend told me of crying, fearing for her life, over being arrested for a broken tail light.
A friend told me of losing followers over her support for the killing to stop.
A friend told me of the fear of the violence reaching her business and of searching for a plan.
A friend told me of watching demonstrators being tear gassed on the Strip.
A friend told me of strangers cleaning graffiti, from stores during the day.
A friend told of the police attacking a peaceful demonstration so that the President could have a photo op.
A friend told me that from their position of privilege they could not possibly understand, but that they would still stand up and support.
A friend told me of threats of violence and rioting over twitter, and of how they were scared.
A friend told me that white men with guns in a government building protesting the lack of a haircut was not the same as black men rioting over a lack of hope, a lack of opportunity, and murder due to indifference.
A friend told me of their broken heart.
A friend told me that posting on social media was not enough, and to f*cking do something.
A friend told me of art being looted.
A friend told me of police taking the knee in solidarity.
A friend told me of police driving into protestors.
A friend told me of buildings burned to the ground, of people shot, and stores looted.
A friend told me protestors protecting an officer separated from his team.
A friend told me that looting and burning of property was just a crime.
A friend told me that the cost of peaceful protests was football careers, ridicule, and a lack of change.
A friend told me of civil war, marshal law, and the national guard.
A friend told me that they are emotionally drained.
A friend didn’t have to tell me that black lives matter.
Word Outlet 