He was famous for dying,
For dying in a land that wasn’t
For being braver than he was or
at least we think we know.
When you talk to his mother now,
She says she saw him on the scene
He was the last one to die, she says
He was the last to left to see To feel,
That the others no longer felt.
It was late at night and no one
around to see or hear it
But his mother did
Sometimes his father agrees
The whole world knew before they
His sister found his pictures going around
He was wearing white that now looked like red
He was famous for dying in a country that was not his own
He was famous for bleeding out
In a land of people that he always
wanted to look like
And maybe now he finally did
But it’s a little too late now
He was famous for his demise in a
land that was not his own
Not for his dreams,
Not for his skills,
Not even for the fact that he was
pretty good at football,
And had the voice of an angel,
That his parents now hope he has
But really, is his death really his
A lover, a friend, not even a
Mourns for the loss of his life,
But his death,
How it happened, when it happened,
how much blood there was,
Everyone manages to make it about
how they’re all alone.
A death is a reminder,
Perhaps, even a breakdown.
Most of the time it might even
be about you turning over a new
It’s about everything and
everything that is not his,
But you and your loss, your change,
Really anything but him.
Only after you die, you become
acceptable or memorable
Or worse, both.
He was no different.
Everyone he knew forgives him
now and is full of love.
How would things be if he survived?
Only he knows.
I imagine him alone sitting in
shards of glasses,
With little life left in him,
Thinking about how this is the
first time in his life he wants to
live live live please
But there’s so little time and so
little light until there isn’t.
First and Multidimensional Queer Women’s Collective of Bangladesh