Hot take:
"If you step on a crack
you break your mamma’s back"
Was effectively
The “Share this with 10 people
Or you’ll have bad luck for seven years”
Before the internet.
And I’ll be honest
There were days
I’d be terrified of going home.
Because of all the crevices
My feet seemed to naturally gravitate towards.
I developed this fear of closed doors.
A fear that they would always remain so
And that my mom would never come home
Because her son was a crack stepping asshole.
To this day
I’ll find my feet hovering
Over infrastructural indentations.
Meaning I’ll adjust my intended path
Based on a past childhood superstition
Some shithead kid only spread because it rhymed.
It’s funny
The things we’ll participate in
For fear of something worse happening.
For instance when I was six
I made fun of this girl in class named Ashley Dallas.
Because here last name was Dallas.
Because that’s the kind of shit you did as a kid.
And I participated
Because I wanted acceptance.
And the price of admission
Of “friendship”
Was making another human feel worthless.
And I paid it.
Or how I had my first drink
After the fourth time
My best friends asked me to try it.
Not because I wanted to taste alcohol
But because I feared my friends
Not wanting to be around such a square.
I put a depressant in my body
Because I was afraid of the depression
My mind would give me
If I didn’t.
Or how years later,
When I was contemplating ending my life,
I would always tell people who asked
That I was “fine.”
Because the only thing worse than dying
Was appearing fragile.
Breakable.
Unmanly.
I broke down
Only when no one was watching.
Hoping my “man card” would remain legitimate.
While my mental health deteriorated.
I still fear closed doors.
Not because of some stupid childhood game
But because of the “real men”
Who take their life every day
Due to a fear of honestly opening up.
A man-sized deadbolt placed on our pain
And the locksmiths of our friends
We’re afraid to confide in.
We defined a man
As someone who doesn’t need assistance.
And we’re etching tombstones with the hand me down chisels
Our shame put in our hands.
Our fear of confessing
Binge drinking coping
Drug numbing therapy
Condescending way of speaking
That being afraid of anything
Was cringeworthy.
We adhere to this belief
That showing any emotion besides anger
Was the antithesis of manly.
But we still hold our breath
As we pass graveyards.
Because we fear upsetting tradition
Hoping that if we don’t speak of these superstitions
They won’t kill us.
Despite all the evidence
That it’s all this holding in
That’s suffocating our ability to continue living.
I think it says everything
That I fear dying
Less than I fear being approved of.
Pardoned for my lapses in controlling the situation.
I’ve been killing my human
In hopes that it’ll somehow give me strength.
This manly trait.
A brand.
Marketing that I don’t need anyone else.
Like I could kill myself
And still bury my selfish afterwards.
And the cracks have begun showing.
The statistic is growing more concrete.
We are ending our stories early
Trying to fit into the caskets of manhood.
And I hate those Facebook posts
That say things like
“Share this with ten friends
Or miss your chance of good fortune."
But I would share this poem with everyone
If it means just one more “real man”
Would begin to open up.
About the Creator
S.C. Says
S.C. Says is an Austin based slam poet who has been performing slam poetry since 2013. He's toured and featured at venues and universities across the country, and his poetry has been viewed over 700,000 times.
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