boys don’t cry

once, i swallowed summer whole—bike chain grease and convenience store firecrackers, the smell of wet asphalt and someone else’s dare. i kept it in my mouth, tongue pressed to the roof, hoping osmosis would make it mine. i was all bony elbows and borrowed gestures, watching boys knock the world loose from its hinges with muddy shoes and fists full of thunder. i wanted that recklessness, the kind that didn’t have to apologize. i wanted scraped palms that weren’t symbolic, to fall out of trees and not into someone’s expectations.

god, i wanted dirt under my nails that wasn't metaphor. no one taught me how to whistle with split lips.

and now when you ask me what kind of boy i am, i don’t have an answer that makes sense. i just say i showed up late but still made it. maybe that’s the point. maybe this version has more backbone because it grew out of absence, not inheritance. & maybe that’s boyhood too: a burning house you run into because it’s yours even if it costs your life.