Oi.
Before you tell me you’re fine,
look me in the eye and lie properly.
Because I know that nod, mate.
I’ve used it.
That little “yeah, sound”
with a whole car crash going on quietly.
This is for the men who don’t make noise,
who crack a joke and change the chat.
The ones who say “I’m alright, boys”
then sit alone and hate themselves for that.
The dads running on fumes and pride,
still packing lunches, still paying bills.
The lads with grief sat by their side,
smiling like it never kills.
I’ve buried my mum.
I’ve lost my brother too.
I’ve read words no brother should read,
then watched my brain draw pictures
I never asked it to.
That’s the bit people don’t get.
Death doesn’t just take one man and leave.
It walks round the family after,
putting its boots on everyone’s grief.
And I’ve been angry.
Not film angry.
Not smashing up bars for the scene.
I mean sat in the dark, teeth clenched,
thinking, “How much more can one bloke fucking mean?”
I’ve had nights where sleep wouldn’t touch me,
where my head ran miles on its own.
Body knackered, brain laughing,
like, “Nah mate, you’re not going home.”
I’ve lifted weights like they owed me money,
drank when I knew it was dumb.
Told people I just needed a minute,
when really, I needed someone.
But men like us, we’re stubborn.
We’d rather bleed than make a fuss.
We’ll help every other poor sod breathe,
then leave no air for us.
We’ll stand there solid for everyone,
with our own ribs coming loose.
Then call it strength because years ago
someone told us feelings had no use.
Well sod that.
Strength isn’t silence.
It isn’t choking pain down with a grin.
It’s not being the hardest man in the room
while your own head caves in.
Strength is saying, “I’m not good.”
No speech.
No big dramatic plan.
Just one honest sentence out loud,
from one battered bloke to another man.
So this is me saying it first.
I’m not healed.
I’m not clear.
Some days I’m still underwater,
still kicking through panic and fear.
But I’m here.
And if you’re here too,
even barely, even pissed off, even numb,
then don’t you dare call that nothing, mate.
You survived what you became from.
For my brother.
For the men we’ve lost.
For the ones sat quiet tonight.
For every bloke pretending he’s fine,
while his own head starts a fight.
Speak before the rope.
Speak before the bridge.
Speak before the drink wins.
Speak before your family has to learn
how deep your pain had been.
I’m not asking you to be soft.
I’m asking you to stay.
Breathe ugly if you have to.
Swear. Cry. Walk. Ring someone.
Just don’t disappear today.
Because there’s a lad somewhere
who needs to hear this still,
you can be drowning,
you can be broken,
you can be tired of the hill,
and still be strong.
Not because you don’t fall apart,
but because with blood in your mouth
and cracks in your heart,
you’re still here,
you stubborn bastard.
You’re still here.