Ricky Rozay raps “Put Molly all in her champagne, she ain’t even know it”
1 Minute Read Time
over a mediocre beat, & nobody bothers to ask who “she” is, or if she
made it home safe that night. I can’t help but wonder how many horror stories
I’ve bopped to. How many truths I’ve assumed to be fiction, thinking
Who would be fool enough to make public knowledge of their private sins?
When Bobby Shmurda got locked up for catching a body & breaking
the internet with his melodic confession, I could no longer shelter beneath
my willful ignorance. Slowly I began hearing death in every song—
even in the cooing of pigeons, the whispered whistle of falling leaves,
the squealed laughs echoing from the schoolyard ten blocks away.
Perhaps this is my due penance for every bead of sweat shed swinging
to bars about blood shed. Perhaps for every woman drugged, then forced
into end-rhyme, a leaf falls under the weight of her silence on the matter,
which makes sense, as she was never given a mouth of her own. If you listen
close, you’ll hear it, how the leaves scream all the way down.
Read more from Issue 22.1.
