This Is Still Pain

they say boys don't cry, so he bleeds instead. silent screams hidden under hoodie threads. he skips meals like skipping pages in a book that no one wants to read- his ribs start spelling out "notice me" but no one speaks that language. "you're a boy, tough it out," they said when his voice shook like glass$and his hands begged for anything but silence. so he carved the words he couldn't say into skin that never asked to be a canvas. they see the hoodie, not the harm they see the smile, not the storm. he hears "girls have it rough, you wouldn't understand," and swallow another truth like it's poison wrapped in a plastic fork and a lie that boys are born invincible. he's drowning in a sea of "man up" "get over it" "stop being dramatic" but his lungs never learned how to breathe in a world where being okey is the only option for boys. they don't see him. not really. not when he whispers "i'm not okey" and they laugh thinking it's a joke. but this isn't a punchline this is a lifeline. unraveling. and if you look close enough, you'll see a boy not broken- but breaking.