Boys Don’t Cry2 min read

Mother, 

With all the neighborhood boys

He has gone out to play

While I am painting unicorns at home

To keep my loneliness at bay. 

Blue is he and I am pink, 

Five is he and I am nine, 

Suddenly I hear him

Cry and shriek at the same time.

Gripping his bruised knee, 

Into the house he rushes;

Frozen with horror, I scream for help,

While in thick droplets, 

His scarlet blood gushes.

Mother,

You are in the kitchen, 

Making sushi for a guest, 

You run to us with a green apron

Tied around your waist.

“They slapped me hard

And they pushed me to the wall, Mum,

They spat on me 

And they called me dumb,

They jeered at me 

Like I’m a clown, 

I tried to grab the window sill 

But I fell down.” 

‘Boys don’t cry, child, 

It will be fine, 

Now don’t you throw a tantrum,

There’s no reason for you to whine.’ 

Mother, 

His tiny body trembles 

From the pain,

But he helplessly tries to protect 

His boyhood from any stain.

Wiping his face dry, 

Not a word does he utter; 

Over the years, 

He grows quieter and quieter. 

And I wonder why 

He never lets out a cry. 

I wonder why

He never ever lets out a cry. 

Mother,

While through the library racks I rummaged, 

I read that Freud had once said 

Unexpressed emotions never die, 

They’re all buried alive with a sigh,

They will come forth later 

In ways that are uglier. 

Mother, 

The silver screen says

Nocturnal streets flow like rivers,

The call of the void 

He subtlety hears

While standing at the edge 

Of the terrace,

And then emancipated 

From this worldly maze, 

he lies on the cemented road, 

Motionless. 

I watch them cover his body 

In a pale white sheet, not blue, 

Burn it into ashes

Of ghastly grey hue,

Amidst a pile of wood 

And flames of fire, 

You tell them he must have tripped 

And fallen down,

Mother, you are a terrible liar. 

Mother, 

The streets these nights,

They all lie dead,

Smeared with cold, rancid blood,

They look like rivers 

Devoured by a flood, 

A flood that screamed only in silence, 

A flood whom you, Mother, 

With your own bare hands, 

Did drown and smother.

Mother, 

Before the flood 

Bade goodbye, 

Writhing, it had whispered,

“The first time I fell down, 

Why didn’t anyone let me cry?”

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