Men Don’t Cry

We have dismantled
our lacrimal apparatuses,
exfoliated expressions of affection
to skeleton stoicism,
exorcised the sentient
from our innateness
and replaced it
with the petrified lies
our facade has become.

This exoskeleton of invincibility
still has vulnerabilities,
invisible to the naivety
we’re programmed to dismiss but
we are no gods or supermen,
no heroes or titans
merely men fed flaws
to be coldblooded,
but we bleed to thaw the rugged,
ruthless,
thoughtless,
crudeness
only to be stuffed with the steroids
of a beguiling media
that has left us
as fetuses muscling
through the median
of the meaning of manhood.

Yet she asks me
to be sensitive,
and I would
if I could but
the sensitivity in me
was aborted during childhood,
adopted by a fear of feeling
and raised to ricochet
rays of emotions
as if I were anaphylactic
to synapse the syntax
of her request.

So I’m three words shy
of a strike out,
the nth inning
of this relationship
before she becomes
a home-run-away from me.
Apologies and excuses
is all I’ve ever managed to dugout,
when all she ever wanted
was a touchdown of my time.

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