In my armor I was unstoppable.
Steel skin forged from lessons
that taught boys never to flinch,
never to crack under unseen weight
we carried in silence, unarmed, unprepared.
My father taught me bravery
meant showing absolutely nothing,
a clenched jaw, dry eyes,
bleeding, but never out loud,
until the silence became second nature.
Strength was an art
he taught like discipline,
like staring through stung eyes,
the art of never asking for help.
I learned to hold it,
even when it hollowed me out.
Burdens grew heavier with age,
expectations, silence, composure.
I carried it like inheritance,
as if my worth were measured
by how much I could bear.
Yet late at night,
when bravery dissolves into truth,
I remove the breastplate,
unstrap the armor piece by piece,
and breathe like I haven’t in years.
Revealing bruised and battered skin,
wounds I learned to dress, but not mend,
beneath steel too proud
to confess its own suffocation.
I wonder, truly,
if bravery is simply honesty,
if being a man
means laying the armor down,
to carry what was never meant to be silent,
to speak pain without apology.
In my armor, I was unstoppable,
but in this raw humanity…
I am alive.