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his emotions are scattered stars,
dangling from cloudless skies,
forming their own constellation,

light years away from the norms
that feed the stereotypes,
threatening to engulf him,
in the arms of presumed masculinity,

he, like the rest, whose lips,
have been sealed,
from uttering words emotion-laden,
lest ‘weakness’ becloud his manliness

this, my boy, is how for forebears
pocketed genuine blushes,
bottled up physiological bruises,
built biceps over broken hearts,
and drowned pain in bottles of beer,

but boy, you could be none of those

be yours
your very own temptation,

fall deeply into your essence
and pay no heed to boxed opinions of you,

pull out of the square holes,
and roll about, carefree

in love? blush,
if you can

and when you hurt,
let the faucet of tears run freely
down your cheeks,

no, not in the rain,
under the glaring eyes of sun rays

boy, like water,
be formless,

the world would adjust to you


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