They Told Him To Be A Man

“Men don’t cry.”

They told him young.

So he learned to swallow the lump in his throat

like it was nothing but air.

“Men don’t break.”

They said it firm.

So he held his breath through every storm,

made his spine an iron rod,

even when it hurt to stand.

“Men don’t talk.”

They warned him twice.

So he sat in silence,

choking on words too heavy to carry,

but too dangerous to release.

And when he finally whispered,

“I’m tired.”

They said, “Man up.”

When he finally admitted,

“I don’t know how much more I can take.”

They laughed— “You’re fine.”

When his hands shook from the weight of it all,

they called it weakness

instead of a lifetime of holding too much.

But listen—

MEN cry.

MEN break.

MEN get tired.

MEN suffer, too.

So if you’re carrying more than you should,

if your chest feels too tight with words left unsaid,

if you’re screaming in silence—

I hear you.

I see you.

I’m proud of you.