There's a strange kind of ache in the weight of the word
man,
A curve to it that never quite fits
but swells over time,
like the softness of skin learning
to bear itself as more.
I carry pieces of myself in places I haven't learned to touch yet,
parts of me still stitched in shadow,
and when love comes,
it arrives with hesitation,
as though unsure
whether it will fit into the shapes I've made.
I stand before them,
nervous with the weight of my name,
of my body,
of the scars still fresh in their own way,
hoping that love will see beyond the fractures,
beyond the questions
to the quiet heart that's always been hereâ
a man trying to find his place in someone else's skin.
And yet, when I kiss them,
there is no map, no legend of where I've been,
only a promise to keep showing them
the parts of me
that still ache,
and the ones
that are finally
beginning to heal.