Public thoughts

Grenfell Tower

My boy Skepta plays on in the background as my body travels through a loud silence of nothing

The hollow feeling of death overwhelms the 316

We try to forget that lives weren’t turned into ashes four stops to come

I see the pretty white houses gathering rich bodies

My eyes are glued to the aesthetics

Making wealth comfortable enough to want and close enough to touch

Their street is decorated with cars we wish to buy,

A turn,

And the street decor changes dramatically, the air gets thicker and the voices get quieter, it becomes painfully difficult not to feel the tears crawl to the surface of your eyes

Posters hang on bus stop windows like church leaflets

Asking for hands to hold them, to help them

On that street blood runs like glue to cement the souls murdered to the air

Keeps the sour odour of neglect and unheard complaints lingering

Their screaming faces are painted in black

Left permanently on display,

I hear a child cry mommy in the echoes of burnt homes

Labels speaking ‘Not For Sale’ are tattooed on the lips of the police

We become tourists to death stops,

Taking selfies and vlogging our experience to showcase to the world

We beg for freedom and happily place chains around our own necks

How do you explain to your child they are about to die?

Holding each other close enough to be one

How did they accept that they wouldn’t see the morning coming?

They will never live to feel the straining light of the sun attack their eyes in at dawn,

To never hear the traffic disturb a peaceful day,

To never be stuck in unnecessary conversations with strange faces they recognise.

I feel angry

I feel sad

I feel every burn that happened

They burned.

I burned.

We burned.