My teacher, she used to tell me:
“Be an aid, child. Not an obstacle.”
Yet, she was the one who held my hand,
When I reached out for my tortured friend.
She said, and I remember clearly:
“It’s his fault, that abominable filth,
He should know better, that walking sin.”
And her words I could not comprehend.
Why did they push and shove him till he bled?
Were those the scars he took back to his bed?
Why couldn’t I help him, what had he done?
My teacher didn’t explain, she said I was too young.

My preacher, he used to tell me:
“Stay away from women, you’re a girl,
You don’t understand, but you’ll reach out to thank me.”
But I had never asked for help,
Unlike my friend – he ended up dropping out –
With flesh wounds reaching under his skin,
And a battered soul that all said had sinned.
I did try to make it to his house,
His belongings lived there, he no longer did.
He left a note, along with his body
Cyan – as it suspended from the fan,
“Clean your inner filth,” it read.

I found it strange that his funeral was barren,
Except for the boy whose hand he had held.
He wailed over the sunken tombstone,
More than the mother – her eyes had turned to stone.
I remembered my teacher, my preacher, as he cried,
And concluded their sermons were as empty as their hearts.
I walked upto the boy whose mud covered hand
Would forever remain unheld, and I embraced his shaking body.
His love was love, as my love was love,
And I decided the body count was enough.
I cleaned my inner filth, as he had intended,
As I held his shaking lover over an immensely heavy grave.