Dress Code: Man

-
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 everything
without breaking into pieces?
No response.
Just echoes.
And a mirror
waiting to judge
whatever you decide.

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