And what does it say about us,

That we turn

             And turn

                          And turn

Turn a funeral into a festival, a spectacle,

Because mourning feels too heavy, dark spots

On our already dark skins.
We cast off headscarves in fear, force ourselves

To watch as others claim them,

A misplaced notion of

Solidarity.
Do not show how this hurts.

We are the ‘good ones’,

Who always forgive

Our murderers and our saviours,

Sometimes both the same.
Do not let them see any moment

Of weakness, of anger, of emotion. Instead,

We school our sorrow and our rage

Into something more…

Acceptable, palatable,

Something that would make them say

“See, these are the good ones.”
“They are one of us.

They are us.”
The names of the dead are lost, whispers

In the chatter around politicianscelebrityactivists,

Vying to outdo one another

In this new exercise of publicity.
Is this what it means, to be “one of us”?
To have our pain leave our lips and float away,

Unheard, instantly lost and forgotten,

Forgotten, like the reason

People have gathered in the streets:

Supporting you in this difficult time

             Thoughts and prayers for your community

                           Aren’t you glad you are here, where it’s safe?

They are here

Not to bear witness, but to be witnessed,

To take up even more space

So we,

             And our grief,

                          And our rage,

May not be seen or heard

Unless we fit the bill,

Unless our bodies and our stories

Are displaced, replaced,

By this single one:
This is not us

              This is not us

                          This is not us
But it is.