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.
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