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Oh, I’m sorry.
You’ll have to forgive my uncultured mind.
I had no idea what being a man was.
Who would have guessed it was more than having something between your legs.

I guess I should go drink a cold one.
Or maybe fix a car.
Watch some sports?
Hit a woman?

That’s what all the real men do.
If you appreciate life and its wonders, you have to be a woman.
How many lives must society take before it crumbles on itself?
But men have it easy, right?

What if I want to cry?
No, I shouldn’t.
Mommy’s the one who cries when daddy beats her.
I guess I should just hit my wife too.

When I’m put into chains and you ask me why.
I’ll tell them, I thought mommy was supposed to cry.
Daddy would always leave her with a black eye.
It’s people like this that deserve to die.

Do you wanna make love?
Do you wanna make me?
Or do you wanna make both?
Do you want to love me emotionally?
Do you want to sing happy songs to my dark parts?
Do you want to kiss me long and lazy?
Do you want to take my burdens with every blanket you wrap me up in?
Do you want to play with me in front of the open window because we're shameless?
Do you want to tell me stories to soothe my soul?
Do you want to **** me while the rain comes down all around us?
Tell me, do you?

I like talking about *******
And I like laughing about awkward situations that aren’t my own
I love hearing about how other peoples parent relationships are just as ****** up if not more than mine.
I feel understood when someone new inevitably tells me they have anxiety,
Or that they hated school.
Cigarettes and beer on men’s breathes still make me dissociate.
And I still try and squash my stomach out of existence or into my pocket to put someone else’s comfort first.
And I still ignore pain during *** and separate my mind and body into compartments to situate myself in the part where it feels good.
I’m still angry.
I still get pangs when I see particular people’s names, or photos, or mention of their friends or favourite music. The pang is dulled now like a blunted needle…
But still the stab reminds me of the twang it used to bring.
That would pull at my limbs till I was foetal and wretching.
I think I got bored of my own pain,
Or I wore myself out.
I think there’s only so long you can hold both sides of a non-existent conversation.
I’m still reaching for affection, compliments and pet names…
And I don’t know if it’s ****** or parental but god I just want to be hugged.

I caught myself by surprise once when I snuggled up to my dad and as I lay beside him watching a movie, I revealed to myself how much I was hurting.

I am sick of crying bathroom selfies. I am sick of shower crying and breakfast skipping. But I do like the rush your body gives you after you’ve let loose on tears.
It makes me wonder if depression is just a little bit addictive.

I still like that feeling…and sometimes I want to feel sad because it feels deep..
But it’s only enticing until you’re there and then it’s a deceptive tar pit of hell,
And you’re tricked and sticky and heavy.

I haven’t been depressed in ages,
But my memory’s bad so I might have felt awful last week
I’m not sure.

For a year I had a folder in my computer called "hey dad".  I used to take photos of myself when I had been crying really badly. I wanted to see if the sadness would show up in my face. I wanted someone to see it.  I didn't know why I did it. But I think it's because you were never there to see me cry. I think it's because if it reached a breaking point where I wanted to bombard you with how much I'd suffered and struggled and you'd hit back with telling me it wasn't true I'd send you those photos. Their dates extending across a whole year. Me wearing different clothes, different hair, but each one a picture of anguish, I wanted you to be confronted with it inescapably. But then I felt like you wouldn't want that, so I deleted it.

You tried to make it about yourself
Saying that I was attacking you
But I didn't even call you names
How could you be so selfish

You tried to make it about me
Saying that I was throwing a hissy fit
But I didn't even victimise myself
How could you be so blind

You tried to make me feel crazy
Saying that it was all in my head
But the proof was in the paper
How could you be such a fool

It was about their safety
Big no matter what I said
You invalidated every word
My entire childhood a lie

Sisters, I could not love them more
My trust in you, could not be so lacking
My heart, broken with your response

It's not about me
And it's not about him
It's not about them
And it's not about you

It's about saying the right thing
And doing the right thing
No matter who you are
No matter what you face

But still you chose
To punish the victim
Not the assailant
******* **** culture