There is a silence that grows inside men,
like moss over stone,
slow and patient,
until it covers everything.
We are taught to be walls,
not rivers.
To carry weight in our chests
like hidden anvils,
never letting it fall from our mouths.
A man weeps,
but inward—
his tears are swallowed
by the same darkness that raised him.
Fathers taught us to be strong.
Not by loving,
but by enduring.
They wore their wounds
beneath long sleeves
and called it survival.
There are men walking this earth
with their hearts clenched like fists,
not from rage,
but from the ache
of never being touched gently
by understanding.
This month is not about strength.
It is about the unlearning of silence,
the sacred act of saying,
I am not okay.
It is the trembling voice
that dares to speak
without armor.
Men are not made of iron—
they rust too.
They corrode quietly
under smiles that say
“I’m fine”
when they are crumbling.
Let us break the myth
that suffering in solitude
is noble.
Let us say to the boy
who holds his breath
instead of his pain:
You are not alone.
You do not have to bleed in silence.
You do not have to bury your sadness
inside your laughter.
Speak.
Cry.
Shatter.
And still be whole.
Still be man.
Still be worthy
of love
without condition.
Broken Author 