men will spend hours online debating whether 100 of them could take down a gorilla.
they’ll say things like, “if we all attack at once,” or “if we use strategy.”
they really believe they’d win.
like they’re starring in a war film and not just 100 guys who get winded walking up stairs.
they believe in their strength so deeply.
they draw diagrams. they make battle plans.
they think they’d survive.
but if you tell them you’re sad?
if you hint at anything internal — not dramatic, just a little ache?
they don’t flinch. they disappear.
i once told a guy i’d been feeling off lately. like something was humming under my skin.
he hit me with “damn, same.”
then asked what time i was free.
it’s not cruel. it’s just... empty.
and somehow, that’s worse.
the bar is so low it’s practically underground.
these days, if a man asks a follow-up question, i’m like — oh. okay. you have range.
but most don’t.
and i’m not here to teach anymore.
i’m not offering crash courses in “how to be human.”
i used to think emotional intimacy was something you built together.
now i know it’s something you either have, or you fake until someone stops asking.
they’ll say things like “i’m just not used to talking about stuff” as if it’s cute.
as if emotional neglect is a fun little personality quirk.
and somewhere along the line, i got tired of making excuses for it.
don’t get me wrong — i’ve felt love.
i still do, in little flashes.
some of it even feels safe.
but i’ve learned to hold that privately. gently.
because i know what it’s like when a feeling slips out too soon and the room goes quiet.
i know what it’s like to be met with silence so loud it feels like punishment.
so now, when someone earns my softness, it’s deliberate.
earned. intentional.
and if they don’t?
that’s fine too.
i’ve stopped over-explaining the ache.
i’ve stopped translating tenderness for people who don’t speak the language.
i’ll text my friends.
i’ll write it down.
i’ll talk to the gorilla.
he listens.
and if he doesn’t — at least he’s not pretending to care just to fuck me.