There is a boy,
Lying stark on the cold ground of a kitchen floor,
A hand pressed to his cheek,
In shock,
Or acceptance,
Nevertheless,
He bites his tongue to keep the tears from streaming.
“Be a man”
The first time a boy is told to be a man is usually because he’s acting like a girl.
He must now twist his young body into a taller shape,
Resembling the man he thinks he must grow into.
There isn’t any mercy,
No refrain.
Just pressure,
The boulder that weighs down on his chest,
Digging into the heart he isn’t allowed to have.
“Boys don’t cry”
He wipes his tears,
Strings quivering words together,
Holds the ugly cracks in his hands, mending them with superglue.
In hope they will stay whole.
This image shatters when he is alone.
“You play like a girl”
He doesn’t think it is wrong,
He might have a sister,
Or a mother,
Who he admires,
A strong soul he may see,
Someone responsible and nurturing.
Perhaps he looks up to them,
Perhaps he wishes to be like them.
Even in limited freedom he knows they have,
He will yearn for their unlimited expression.
The boy may not think it is an insult to behave that way,
But he knows he would be shunned even so.
“Boys must be strong”
Must?
He wishes for a moment when he is allowed to be weak,
And vulnerable.
A chance to show the beautiful emotions he can give flight to,
The boy doesn’t think anger is all he can offer,
In most situations anger isn’t needed,
He doesn’t enjoy feeling upturned and rageful.
But he relents,
Because this is what it must take,
To be,
A.
Real.
Man.