(Dedicated to all men who face the daily struggle of emotional marginalization in the society)
Emotional waves welling up in his loins;
the torrent so intense, it chokes.
He needed safety and refuge;
he was told to man up.
Wounds and bleeds hidden in the chambers of his heart;
blood of pain dripping down his chest
to settle under the table of his belly,
the DSS and FBIs cannot apprehend the culprit,
911 becomes a mystery;
he was told to man up.
The appearance of a trampled kitchen rag on his face;
is burnt with the “man up” matchsticks.
Weariness resurfaces;
he must repeat the process.
Sacred abuses nailed to his mind,
desecrating the holy sanctuary.
Stripes of hate, resentments and backlash
tear his priestly garment.
Him not being the messiah, they aren’t healing stripes,
yet he’s faced with placards that read
“Man up”
Little tickling flowers of admiration and appreciation pass by.
No, they aren’t for him;
he was supposed to man up.
Necklaces with the inscription “It’s okay to cry”
are never in stock;
he had to pick the ‘man up’ logo.
The absence of ovaries and succulent breasts
deny him access to loving care
with the question “what for?”
So, he puts on toughness like a coat
with a stony mask.
It confuses his loving soul,
for at night,
He undresses to take a shower and sleep naked
in the pool of his cooked waters.
Walking by his window, I sling, mildly, a stone.
His curtain gives way; our talking eyes meet.
In the awkwardness of his reveal, I whispered,
Speak up
not man up.
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