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Armor Doesn’t Breathe

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I learned early how to lock my face into something unbreakable. Not because I was strong— but because the room only respected stone. So I became it. A statue with a pulse, a clenched jaw dressed up as discipline, a man-shaped container for everything I wasn’t allowed to spill. They said— don’t cry. don’t need. don’t reach. So I swallowed softness like it was contraband, hid it behind half-jokes and shrugs, buried it under “I’m good.” But I’m not. Sometimes I want to hug like the world isn’t watching. Sometimes I want to hold someone and not feel like I’m breaking character. Sometimes a song hits and I don’t want to explain why my chest feels like it’s caving in. Yeah— I liked Mulan. Still do. Yeah— I listened to NSYNC. Not as a joke. Not for anybody else. Just because I felt something. And that’s the part they don’t understand— feeling doesn’t make me less dangerous. It makes me real. You wanna test that? We can step outside. We can measure strength the old way— knuckles, b...
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I’m Sorry I Noticed You

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You’re right. I should apologize. It’s not like you showed up and signed some contract to be seen the way I see you. So yeah— I’m sorry. I’m sorry that somewhere between the hours, the conversations, the nothing moments that turned into something— I found you. Not just a person… but a good one. I’m sorry your personality doesn’t sit quietly in the background. I’m sorry it pulls. I’m sorry it makes me stop and think, what if… I’m sorry you became someone I could actually picture a life with— not the fantasy version, not the rushed version, but the slow-built, intentional kind that people swear doesn’t exist anymore. I’m sorry that when I wake up, you cross my mind like a habit I didn’t try to form. I’m sorry I care how your day went. I’m sorry I listen— really listen— like your words actually mean something. I’m sorry I respect the way your mind works, like it’s something worth studying instead of just passing through. I’m sorry your excitement became something I look forwar...
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Somewhere Under This Same Sky

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It’s after midnight. The kind of quiet that makes you think too much. I’m sitting here staring at the moon, and the only thing running through my head is this— did I already miss it? Because at 37, people love to remind you the odds don’t get better. Like there’s some invisible timer counting down on your life, and every year that passes, you’re just… less likely. And I hate that thought. But it sticks. Because I know what it feels like to have someone there. To wake up next to someone who actually gives a shit. To have those late-night conversations that don’t need a reason. And now it’s just… quiet. You try to tell yourself it’s temporary. That it’ll come around. But every time you meet someone, it’s the same story— not a match, not interested, or just playing games like any of this is a joke. And you start wondering if maybe that was it. That one chance. That one window. And now you’re just… here. Looking up at the same moon every night, thinking maybe there’s someone ou...
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Dress Code: Man

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They hand you a title like it’s iron. Be a man. No instructions. Just penalties. Stand tall. But not too tall. Speak up. But don’t get loud. Hold your ground. But don’t make a scene. You learn quick— anger is dangerous unless it’s useful. violence is wrong unless it’s needed. silence is strength until it looks like weakness. They measure you with rulers that bend. “You’re not a real man if—” fill in the blank like a threat. Like a dare. Like a verdict already written. So you swallow it. The disrespect. The sideways comments. The quiet tests. You nod. You breathe. You calculate. Because one wrong move and suddenly— you’re not controlled, you’re a problem. But one right move at the wrong time? Still a problem. You become something else over time. Not soft. Not hard. Tempered. Like steel that’s been heated cooled heated again— until it forgets what it was before the fire. And still— somewhere in the noise— you’re asking a question no one answers: How the hell do I be everythin...
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Still Waiting to Be Enough

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I wake up and the world already has a list for me. A man is supposed to be this, supposed to have that, supposed to stand taller, earn more, own more, be more. And I sit there with sleep still in my eyes wondering if I missed the day they handed out the blueprint. Because I try. Every day, I try. Not the kind of try that gets applause, not the kind that turns heads, just the quiet kind that doesn’t break the surface. The kind nobody sees. They say men are providers. But what do you call a man who’s still building the table with splinters in his hands? They say men shouldn’t live like this, shouldn’t want things like that, shouldn’t spend time escaping into games, shouldn’t fall short of a number someone else decided matters. Height. Money. Status. Space. Like worth can be measured in inches and paychecks and square footage. And I wonder— if I ever reach those peaks, those polished, distant pinnacles, will they finally look at me and say, there he is. Or will I just be anoth...
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Ash Where the Promise Was

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They told me— stay in school, keep your head down, do the work, and one day the world would open like a door that had been waiting for me. They said there was a life on the other side of effort— steady hands, steady pay, a home that didn’t shake when the wind changed, a woman, some kids, a future that didn’t feel like it could be taken. They said dream like it was something you could build. So I built. Brick by brick, hour by hour, paycheck by paycheck— I built something that looked like freedom. And then one day a man I’ve never met in a room I’ll never see decided numbers mattered more than names— and just like that my life became a line item. Cut. Not because I failed. Not because I broke. Not because I didn’t earn it. Just… cut. I’ve been laid off so many times I stopped calling it bad luck and started calling it what it is— a system that eats its own builders to keep the lights pretty for people who never touched the ground. They told me the dream was real. But standin...
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Before the Fire Learns Our Names

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I don’t want the kind of love that kicks the door in, loud and reckless, tracking mud across the floor just to leave it behind when it gets bored. I’ve seen that kind of fire before. It burns like it’s trying to prove something and dies the same way. No… I want the kind that pulls up a chair without asking, sits beside me like it’s always been there, like it never needed an introduction. I hope we become best friends first. Not in that watered-down, half-committed, “let’s see where this goes” way people use when they’re afraid to mean something— I mean real. The kind where I reach for my phone and your name is already halfway dialed before I even know why. The kind where nothing is planned, but somehow we’ve built entire days out of doing absolutely nothing. I want to laugh with you over shit that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. Build something stupid like Lego sets and treat it like architecture. Lose sleep on purpose because the night feels too short when you’re in it...
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