I come across pictures of two rubber bulletsnestled in a palm, their nose tips blackand rounded like a reporters’ foam-coveredmic. The caption reads These maim, break skin,cause blindness. Another photo—a hollowcaved into a woman’s scalp, floating handsin blue gloves dabbing at the spill. An offhandcomment in the replies—are you sure that rubber bulletcaused that type of damage?—the question hollowedof genuine concern. The page refreshes. A blackman melts into a street curb from exhaustion, his skinblotched with sweat and red. Protester’s hands coverhis body, and this is church. A baptism—coverme with the blood. And there are more. Hand-drawn threats—shoot the FUCK back. Police cars skinnedof their lettering and paint from the bullet-aim of Molotov cocktails in Budweiser bottles. BlackLives Matter markered in thick letters below the hollowoutline of the black power fist. A gas mask’s eye-hollowsglinting with tears. The page refreshes. Undercovercops wearing matching armbands like a gang. A blackarmy tank crawling through city streets the way a handmay tip-toe up a thigh. The page refreshes. A bulletlist of places to donate if I can’t put my skinin the game protesting in the streets. The snakeskinpattern of fires from a bird’s-eye view of DC. HollowedTarget storefronts. The page refreshes. Rubber bulletspinging a reporter and her crew as they run for cover,a white woman’s reply—things are getting out of hand—punctuated with heart emojis. Protester’s shadows blackingthe fiery backdrop of the riots. Badge numbers blackedover with tape. The page refreshes. A man skinnedby the asphalt when pulled from his car with both handsup. A police car plowing into a peaceful crowd. The hollowpromises from white friends to “do better”—a cover-up for how quickly they will bulletinto our inboxes and ask us to hand them the answers. Blackrubber bullets—the page refreshes—a woman’s forehead skinsplit—page refreshes—a bloody hollow—refresh—take cover.