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Holy murder

By @MeaningfulMee

Holy murder

“Coffin’s should not be made with money from college funds.”

That’s what they said.

The tragedy of the year, another baby buried before mom’s hair turned grey.

Memories fading away. 

Another empty bottle lets take the pain away.

No one could cope, should have to cope.

Watching a coffin sink into the soil, a forever young soul imploded.

Not even old even to drink, now they’re gone.

The bitter irony.

Crying about a suicide outside the building that said do it.

A building full of books and crosses.

Books full of hate speech wrapped behind the cover of spirituality.

“Take this bread and this life.”

Kneeling on the floor, hearing those words.

Every sound goes uncontested.

Slowly but surely helping out with overpopulation.

“Love is not always love.”

A hard pill to swallow.

Like extasy, harmful and uncalled for but everyone else is doing it so why not join in?

Newspaper article, stories about people, how transphobia kills.

Oh, wait, no it is unsaid, undercover.

Another hard pill to swallow.

A bit like a heart transplant, people have died, will die without it, yet somehow in this thing that we have the audacity to call a “civilised society” not everyone gets it.

Living in hiding is hard.

They had to do it for long enough.

Sharing **** behind abandoned bikesheds.

Watch sunsets in rainbow flags on the quiet side of town.

Love is love.

In those moments there was no doubt about it.

For just one moment they felt free.

But once the sun had set, the rainbow flags were shoved deep at the bottom of catholic school, school bags.

But once the **** were finished and they walked around the corner, they became the “****”.

Boys who get ***** watching Ru Pauls Drag Race beat up kids like them, leave them to rot on sidewalks.

Cos daddy voted “No!” and daddy is big, daddy is strong.

He is not.

He catcalls girls to feel straight. 

Beats up gays to get show how straight he really is.

Part of the reason he does it is to get closer to their bodies,

Though he’d never say it.

When he was alive, he wasn’t.

Life isn’t being a hidden minority that has more hate than members. 

If for one moment they had stopped focusing about what he wanted to do with his body, maybe then his mind would have gotten its chance to shine.

He was so bright like so many others.

Ever wonder how many cures, ideas we have lost through oppression?

Clearly no one thinks about it even cos it is happening as we speak.

Another son ends it all, cos the name they called him was dead, so he might as well be.

Tick Toc, stop the clock.

Oh, wait, too late.

Off the bridge goes the girl who’s mind holds the cure for cancer, all cos mammy had **** to say about the man on telly.

She listened.

He wore a smile that could light up the world.

When he was on the other side of town. 

Happiness seemed infinite.

Infinite until Monday morning called.

His hands shaking with self-hate as he pulled up ankle-length skirts. 

Voice silenced as he walked through the corridors.

It is easy to hide in plain sight but it’s not so easy to stay alive when your life is a lie. 

He was evil, in religion class.

A convention of far-right opinions in CSPE.

He was an “inappropriate” subject matter in every other class.

He was scared.

Information is hidden but once you find it, it is terrifying. 

Death threats and assaults are high.

So high, too high to rise above them.

No matter how many dirty needles he broke against the floor, no matter how many lines he inhaled, he was never higher than them. 

High enough.

Too afraid to be his self to depressed to hide any longer.

Note sighed off with “Leo.”

Suicide note. 

Every warning was there. 

Right in front of loving mothers eyes but to sinful to talk about under a picture of Jesus, one in every room. 

He couldn’t take the pain anymore, dying wish. 

Put his name on his grave.

Written just below the “goodbye mam, I love you.”

Just above “Leo.”

Ink burnt in a firey pit of oppression and burning smoke ready to provoke another kid off the edge. 

Dying wish to put his name on his grave.


Read the grave.

Craved into marble.

Laying underneath the holy shadow.

A grave for a grieving mother.

Name engraved, just as dead as the body that lay underneath the church that helped kill him. 

How many more times is the bible gonna take a life, before it is questioned? 

I am scared to find out who that holy killer’s gonna come for next. 







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