Armor Doesn’t Breathe
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...