Ally Steinfeld

Aimy laughs each time they open their mouth and someone else’s voice comes out

‘Cause ain’t this funny

Two white non-trans people walk onto a stage, reciting sermons about the dead

The dead, my dead, that they claim, but still used the wrong pronouns for

Spitting names that were dead long before the rigamortis set in

But they stand there with their flower crown shaped halos thinking themselves heros

Forgetting that the villains are usually the ones that supposedly get what is coming for them

That they are the ones that die

So I guess for them it makes sense that people like me are only expected to live until 35

They remain willfully ignorant of the hate that has lived longer than the beautiful child who is gone

Aimy Bartumeut, born September 22nd, 1998

Ally Steinfeld, born 11 months and 9 days after me

We were both Virgos

Ally was found murdered in 2017, 8 days before her birthday

Her bones put in a bag and she was left in a chicken coop

And her killers did not get charged with a hate crime

Her killers did not get charged with a hate crime

Her killers did not get charged with a hate crime

Did your privilege save Ally from the murder?

The mutilation?

Did your President care about husks of my dead piling up on his front door, their blood splattering against his wall?

Did y’all think that art?

Something worthy of the MOMA

Probably think the wailing of the mourning great background music for that poem you spit

Love makin’ the beauty of our suffering a display

Acting like this is some sick fucking game

They be havin’ brunch and be talkin’ about the dead like its some pass time while eating fruit from a soil fertilized with our blood

They tell us to vote

Like this is a case of ballot or bullet

Ballot or beating

Like a ballot gon stop our lungs from goin’ still, stop our loves from grievin’

Like your laws, your patriotism has ever stopped the mutilation and crucifiction trans people of color, specifically black trans women, every. Single. fucking. year

They will never know of this pain, of this primal fear I lug around walking home late at night right pronouns pinned onto bag

They will never know what it’s like to fight dysphoria and diaspora while also fighting for your life

Though, of course, they totally supported Caitlyn Jenner and looove Orange is the New Black

But hate when they’re hit with that what’s good

Hate when they’re reminded of the bodies they stand on

They don’t even pronounce people like me alive before they’re dead

But they have the audacity tell us we should just focus on some bathroom laws when there are vigils in every county

Like we don’t want comfortability and safe

Like choose one or the other

Pickiness isn’t cute

They take our tongues, our palms, strip our bodies until we’re raw and heaving no more

But don’t forget this is now magic trick America

Now they see us, now they don’t America

Until they need us for their rallies

For their funds

Until they need our names and it turns to ash in their mouths

I am terrified of getting killed, of going missing’

Of my mother becoming a river of grief, banging up like a tsunami against my empty casket

Screaming alabanza, trying to get my name in God’s grace

So how are your politicians, your nationalism going to save people like me when y’all even don’t lift up our names rather than leaving them six feet under in the cold, wet dirt

Y’all stand on pedestal made of our bones and then ask us why we ain’t helpin’ ourselves

Why aren’t we crackin open our ribs and lettin ‘em use our blood to draft up their petitions

But y’all cannot have us

Our names are still our names

Our names are still our names

Our names are still our names

Our names are still our names

Our names are still our names

And are they not such damn good names





My name is Aimy Bartumeut, born September 22nd, 1998

And if I am taken from my mother too soon

Don’t let them make a puppet of my name


This poem is about: 
My community
My country


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