Women want him, men want to be him.
Sometimes I wish you would just relax, and sit down and gaze at the world around you.
Sometimes I feel like you are trapped in a silicone bubble.
Only seeing what is fake.
What is pushed on you?
Your strength is admirable. But you don’t interest me at all.
You’re a tool.
You remind me of the boys I met this summer.
You remind me of the boy who said goodbye.
Sensitive one minute and then destructive the next.
I like it when you smile and I love it when you cry with me.
But this is just too much.
You cry too much and you are a pussy.
You don’t stand up for me.
You let me push you around. I messed up and you told me it was okay.
But it wasn’t.
Man up already. I don’t want to date a girl.
Be the stereotype.
Be my ideology, the buff guy, the gentleman, the tough guy. the provoker, the superhuman, push the limits, the provider, the frat boy, the villain.
Each of these personas clash with the notion of homosexuality.
But you’re not gay, you’re not a gentleman, either. I don’t want to be dating a girl.
I like when you smile, and I love when you cry with me.
But this is just too much.
I told you to man up, but you couldn’t.
And then it changed.
You briefly became a man.
Dinners and hangouts. You toughened up. And I melted.
But you got too tough.
I flip-flop. Masculine traits you’d drop and and pick up.
It was like you had to be everything at one point.
You are trapped in the silicone bubble now, with your alcoholic vomit and oil paint thinner.
I told you to man up and you did.
If only I hadn’t.
If only I didn’t make you feel bad for feeling sensitive.
If only I didn’t take advantage of you, and if only I hadn’t pushed you around.
Then I wouldn’t remind myself of the boys from this summer.
Because I was like them, the way they acted to you.
Controlling, dominant, bitchy.
And you were sensitive, sweet, and caring.
Stereotypes of the typical male infiltrated my ideal as to what you should have been.
But weren’t.
It should have been balanced. But you shouldn’t have stopped being nice.
You stopped being NICE.
You’d hit the bottle until you puked and I’d smoked until my lungs shriveled.
You ruined it, dude. You changed, dude. Was it because of me?
I like it when you smile and I love it when you cry with me.
But this is just too much.
My fault for pushing. My fault for the pressure. You snapped and I collapsed.
You don’t stand up for me. I messed up and you told me it was okay.
But it wasn’t.

–poem by Ellie Schnayer from Rebels With A Cause by Niobe Way.