There is a boy who keeps his heart
in his back pocket, like a passport
only shows it at safe borders.
And what is a safe border
for a soft boy who does not speak
the language of war
but knows it fluently?
His hello is a migration.
his body, checkpoint.
his laugh, visa denied.
his softness, contraband.
You say he is beautiful
the way a secret is beautiful.
what you mean is
he makes no demands.
what you mean is
his sadness is palatable.
what you mean is
his softness does not inconvenience you.
you want him quiet.
controlled. regulated.
You want him
not like the others.
not like the ones who shout
who sweat
who protest
who bleed in public
and dare to make eye contact.
you call his quiet bravery.
but have you ever asked
what bravery costs
when it’s the only currency
you’re allowed to carry?
He is beautiful
like a wound you can’t report.
like a hymn that got you arrested.
like mango on white linen
in a house where sweetness
is considered a spill.
you say: his laughter is a bird.
I say: how many birds have you caged?
how many names have you turned
into paperwork?
If i could give him something
for the road ahead,
it would not be a love poem.
He has enough of those
written by people who watched
and did nothing.
I would give him
a megaphone.
a knife.
a map with every border crossed out.
a love that does not translate
into sacrifice.
because here is what you forget:
boys like him
die in customs lines.
boys like him
are buried beneath metaphors.
boys like him
don’t need your witness.
they need your disruption.
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