By Zara, TIWP Student

For a second,
I thought they could actually see me.
And then I remembered that they don’t care enough to look.
For a second,
I thought they could actually hear me.
And then I remembered that they don’t care enough to listen.
But they should.
Open your eyes to this monstrosity,
let your ears ring with the horror.
We are dying,
drowning in water laced with toxins.
Daughters are suffocating under the weight of earthquakes,
our voice is hoarse until it is gone,
crying until we’re shouting to show you to that
I am dying.
She is dying.
And while men may be bleeding,
they certainly would never show it.

I am sorry.
Truly.
But I will never apologize because it’s not my blame to claim,
though I certainly have been trained to beg for forgiveness,
haven’t I?
You would know.
Sorry that you can never be weak.
That you cannot cry.
That the only answer to your scars is to stomp over your vulnerabilities.
Sorry that you will never receive a hug from a friend.
That there is no space for you to be as I can be, and do as I do.

And so it seems that holding us the same way you would a sock in your drawer
is what it means to “be a real man.”
And I suppose that it what safety is supposed to mean—
being held close like a prized possession.
Sitting around the warmth emitting from a chimney;
and as you tend the fire,
carefully nurturing and protecting and managing this vital and precious source of energy,
ensuring that our glow will not fade,
we understand we are the wood,
being poked and prodded by tongs.
Left to cook until we are nothing but ash.
And as the smoke creeps through your nose,
through the airways and lungs that function like a miracle in the human body,
you’re left to choke and turn to lighters—
because we are running dry.
And you are without us.
You are alone.
Because we are dying.
It seems you’ve scored the own goal,
stabbed a back you didn’t realize was the one connected to your head.
The suicide of billions of men has been wrought by no one other than themselves.
Me and you—we share one thing.
The same inflictor.

Do you hear me now?
Do you see us now?
Only when the picture we paint drips red over your face, too.
When the songs we sing have a high note instead of the harmony you cherish.
When the poem I write is cold-blooded and cruel, now your senses work.
Once I am emotionless, and strong, and fearless, and have made it about you.
Apathetic. Selfish.
The enemy.
What a disappointment you are to us all.