Death,
we name it, we glorify it when it comes for the ones with faces known,
the ones whose lives graze screens, clutter feeds, fill stadiums with their breath.
But who gives a damn when their lungs collapse?
Why does the earth pause, why do they wrap bodies of the famed
in silk and silver whispers?
They are not gods.
They never were.
What makes their bodies more sacred than the bones
rotting under my feet, forgotten in a backyard with no flowers,
no one screaming their names, no headlines to headline the fact
that they died too, alone, just like every other animal.
Screw every one of those icons,
whose deaths are hung in the air like banners,
while the rest of us are crushed by the weight of the dirt
that will bury us and never blink.
My own people—those I loved—
are lost to time, tombstones blank, stones cold,
forgotten by everyone,
while your celebrities are laid in gold,
honoured, fucking wept for,
as if their bodies didn't rot the same way,
as if the worms respect a name
more than they respect the scent of blood.
Not a tear, not a howl.
Where are the hands to cover their eyes
when their graves stay empty,
hollow,
unloved?
