Growing Up

I was taught
men do not need 
to be held
so I learned
how to stand still
while waiting to fall.

I was told strength 
meant silence,
so I built a house
of unsaid things
and called it reason.

When tenderness came,
I called it weakness.
When loss came,
I called it conspiracy.
When love came,
I said I'd outgrown
that kind of illusion.

To be awake, I thought
was to stop wanting
what I could not bear to feel.

And so, I tore down
every door that led inward,
each one labeled foolish
by the man I hoped to become.

I called this awakening
but it was only sleep 
without dreaming.

Inside, a child still whispered
through the walls:
teach me to be
what I was not allowed
to learn.