Burn us with the sticks, beat us with the stones, ‘faggot’ will always hurt me.

Lying stiff and lifeless, a body that I once called my own, has been punched into the cold, broken glass filled parking lot. There are no sirens, no flashing lights, just ugly grey silence flooding the air. That’s how I know that no one has found the body yet. And when they do, they probably won’t even be able to recognise it. It’s like someone has paused the movie that was once my life and thrown away the batteries from the remote, never to be unpaused again. The body that was mine, is now blue, black, bleeding and weeping, crying for the rhythm and motion of a beating heart once again. The corpse with skin that was once plump and strong has been beaten, torn and made unrecognisable. The body shows signs of trauma. Under the nails that have been grated on the body’s hands, there is dirt, blood and glass. Evidence of strain and retaliation against the inevitable. You’re probably wondering how the fuck this happened to me? Well, let’s start from the beginning shall we? 

hi.

My name was Theo. My life was once filled with love, light and colour. But that all changed on the night I was murdered.

When I was younger Aunty Ange would come over once a month like clockwork. I would run up to her black leather handbag and search for the brightest, most fabulous pink lipstick I could find. She was a makeup artist you see, so she always carried a range of different colours of lipsticks in her handbag. At this age, I never thought for a second that it was different, or peculiar that I wanted to wear lipstick and dance around in princess dresses. But apparently, in society’s eyes it was? It started with constantly being called camp every day. “Oooh he’s so camp“. “Oooh why are you so camp?”. “Yeah so sorry but you’re just too camp“. This word turned into a fear. I was scared to be myself in most situations. I didn’t want to be labeled this word “camp”. I didn’t want to be known as just “the campy camp boy”. But this word soon adapted into another phrase, a phrase with history and blood behind it. “Faggot!” This word isn’t just a word though, it’s a loaded weapon, ready to be shot at any given moment. It’s the last word many homosexuals hear before they get beaten, shot, or burnt alive. 

My parents decided to relocate to the little town of Wanaka. I never wanted to leave my home in Matakana. To me, this farm was the best place on earth. If I could describe my childhood with a smell, it would smell like freshly cut summer grass with a hint of heaven. It was a place where I could just forget about everything and everyone and just put my feet in the green grass and run. But now I’m in Wanaka. The people here are just so bloody plain, like plain crackers, dry, stale and tasteless. I liked to call them sheep. They just live their lives day by day, doing the exact same thing over and over and over and over again. It must be so exhausting being one of those sheep.

But now I’m nowhere. Thanks to the group of toxic, homophobic, ugly lookin sheep. I’m dead.

All that is left is a hollow body, that is about to be buried, swallowed by the darkness that is known as death. The body that I once called my own, will eventually collapse under the pressure of the soil above it. The coffin walls will be eaten away, broken down by mother nature’s children. It will provide new life, even though mine has just ended. The body will slowly decay and so will my existence. I will be forgotten. 

To all the boys, girls and everything in between who have been forgotten. They rolled us up in carpets, burnt us at both ends, smoked us like the fags we were. Threw us in with the burning sticks and the twigs, melted us while we screamed. Back in the old days, we didn’t even deserve a stake, we were just put in piles and burnt in masses. 

Burn us with the sticks, beat us with the stones, ‘faggot’ will always hurt us.