I am a man, at least that’s what I tell myself.
My problem isn’t what *** I am
My problem isn’t my appearance
For those things I am “manly” in each;
It’s just that I am emotional.

You wouldn’t think it an issue being a construction worker
With near permanent dirt under my fingernails because it’s impossible to clean that which has never known purity
A beard to cover the shame and guilt on my face
And a belly that only exhibits my attempts of eating myself into oblivion,
With all of these external anchors it’s hard to admit that I feel.

What if I don’t want to “man up”? What if I can’t right now?
What if I don’t see my broken pieces as a problem but the most confused and mistreated parts of soul that have had to be hidden from you and your judgment?
What if me being aware of the damage done to myself from myself from the fear of you hurting me if you knew what it was I really wanted.

What if I wanted to dance and sing instead of “chase mad women bro?”
Can I still be a man then?
Can I read poetry, dress in a fashion I respect, get whatever haircut the **** I want
Can I still be a man when I am crying, when I’m in pain and an emotional wreck?

Yes, to all the “men” that have literally tried to beat into me that “men don’t cry”
To all of the testosterone driven badass’ who only sleep with America’s Next Top Model
To all of you, real men swing dance. Real men aren’t afraid of what you think
Or what you say or to whom it’s said to too.
It’s taken me 30 **** years to love myself for all my beautifully broken abstract pieces and to understand that they all have crucial role
I am a mosaic of perfectly placed emotions thoughts behaviors and attitudes
Totally and apologetically masculine in my ability to be me, all of me.
I’m ok with being me today.