For All Men, A bouquet of emotions

For All Men, A Bouquet of Emotions

This Women’s Day.

This women’s day, I pity you, man.

I pity your armour – the one that doesn’t allow you open grieving, the heaving of the bosom, the snorting of the nose when the cries turn into loud sobs. The weeping that gets deeply connected with your thoughts, the wry smiles when the cries aren’t welcomed.

I pity your stoicism – the one which dissuades you from confiding your innermost, most shameful thoughts to your friends, the steel resolve to try and do it all, to take it on the chin.

I pity your coolness – the chill with which you (supposedly) silence your critics, your inability to openly express your gratitude and your appreciation.

I pity your (ill-formed, so-called) strength – the one which doesn’t allow you to be vulnerable, to show open wounds, to allow those scabs to be re-opened, to silence those wounds.

I pity that you can’t love pink – the colour that , therefore, I have started not to love ; because sadly we have reduced even a colour to a tokenism.

I pity all that I am told I ought to be to prove myself a woman.

I pity you, man ; and sincerely sympathise with your lot.

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