Twirl of Genocide

They peel his name like rotting skin
then dress him in a marionette's sin.
They rouge his cheeks with frozen blood,
then drown his youth in opium mud.
They lace his limbs in bridal thread,
then sell his nights to mouths of lead.
They twist his joints for evening shows,
then bleach the blood between his toes.

He dances on a bayonet's tip
unzipped flesh in a monster’s grip.
His spine contorts for men who stare,
while powdered hands unbraid his hair.

The bangles clink like prison keys
and ankles swell with phantom pleas.

His soul is bartered ounce by ounce
while warlords grin and bodies bounce.

The justice boots just watch and leave
saying "boys have no right to grieve'.
It gets branded as a masculine art
where boys are split for men to chart.

They toast it to culture and ancestral pride
while every twirl is actually a genocide.