I wrote these two poems after a conversation with my friend, and I wanted to share them with you. They're both for you and inspired by what you're going through. Wishing you and your spouse the best in your marriage—I truly believe you'll get through this together. I love you both.
You call her a flower
and I understand why.
You see the way she needs patience,
the way she needs softness,
the way she needs love
spoken gently
and shown consistently.
You remind the world
that she must be watered
if she is going to bloom.
But, my love—
water me, too.
Not because I am weak.
Not because I cannot stand on my own.
But because even strong roots
can dry beneath the soil.
I know how to carry things.
I have carried pressure
like it was part of my name.
Carried responsibility
until my shoulders forgot
what it felt like to rest.
Carried everyone else's emergencies
while calling my own pain
"something I will deal with later."
I have learned how to say,
"I'm good,"
with a storm behind my teeth.
I have learned how to turn exhaustion
into silence,
fear into anger,
loneliness into distance—
not because I wanted to hurt you,
but because no one ever taught me
how to ask for water
without feeling ashamed
of being thirsty.
So listen to me now.
I need reassurance, too.
I need to know
that your love does not disappear
when I am not performing strength.
I need to know
that I am still desirable
when I am tired,
still worthy
when I do not have an answer,
still your partner
when I need help finding my way.
Tell me you see me
outside of what I provide.
I am more than a paycheck.
More than protection.
More than the person
who fixes what breaks,
handles what hurts,
and stands between you
and every storm.
Sometimes I do not need
another problem placed in my hands.
Sometimes I need your hand
placed in mine.
Ask me how I am
and stay long enough
to hear the answer.
Not the answer
that keeps the peace.
Not the answer
that makes me easier to love.
Ask about the truth.
Ask me what has been heavy.
Ask me what I have been carrying.
Ask me what I have not said
because I was afraid
it would change the way you see me.
And when I finally open my mouth,
do not turn my vulnerability
into evidence against me.
Do not make a courtroom
out of my confession.
Do not call me weak
because I trusted you
with the places in me
that still tremble.
I need a safe place, too.
A place where I do not have to be
the strongest person in the room.
A place where I can take off
the armor
without being punished
for what is underneath.
Because I am still a man
when I cry.
Still a man
when I need affection.
Still a man
when I say,
"I do not know what to do."
