(This is a repost from Reddit)

They cut you, brother,

like someone picking a flower without noticing its scent.

They discarded you,

as if you were excess flesh,

as if you were nothing more than a useless flap

hanging from the mystery of masculinity.

You were the hood of the temple,

the veil guarding the sacred,

the skin that whispered pleasure at the slightest touch,

the shield of the glans,

the ancient language of sensation,

the caress we were never allowed to know.

You were skin with memory,

nerve endings that spoke,

the tear of the deepest pleasure.

And yet…

they took you without asking,

without ritual,

without farewell.

They threw you in the trash as if you were waste.

You — who were poetry —

were tossed like unwanted wrapping.

And we were left

incomplete.

There is no grave for you,

no mourning,

no words to bring you back.

Only this silent scar,

this glans hardened by habit,

this bodily memory that aches without knowing why.

And yet now, we honor you.

Though you’re gone,

we sing to you.

You were not excess —

you were a gift.

Sacred foreskin,

ignored skin,

mutilated brother:

you were not trash.

You were beauty,

and we mourn you as we mourn the irreplaceable.