How To Build A Boy

Begin with —

sperm and signature,

a sonogram and sighs.

Stamp him male —

not with celebration,

but with silent expectation:

here comes the provider,

the protector,

the prison.

Dress his cradle in blue —

not for calm,

but for camouflage.

Do not name him.

Define him.

Carve his worth from inheritance,

his purpose from pressure.

Mould his spine to carry

generations of debt and duty.

Teach him silence

before speech.

Teach him shame

before softness.

Teach him survival

before selfhood.

Hand him a rib

and call it home.

Hand him a sword

and call it love.

Then blame him

when the garden burns.

Tell him to lead

but never dominate.

Tell him to cry

but never weep.

Tell him to fight

but never rage.

Tell him to feel

but not too much,

not too loudly,

not too soon.

When he loves —

call it obsession.

When he leaves —

call it abandonment.

When he stays —

call it convenience.

If he dares to ask,

"What about me?" —

remind him:

the world does not weep

for its default setting.

Now begin the sermons.

Let prophets of pain

borrow bruises like accessories.

Let poets write elegies

on wounds that weren’t theirs,

and perform them

for applause.

Let empowered victims sell

grief in small batches,

wrapped in recycled rage

and ribbons of borrowed trauma.

Let them forget —

this system devours its kings

long before it poisons its queens.

Because this was never

about men or women —

it was always about cages

furnished with mirrors

so no one sees the bars.

Make him the villain.

Because revolutions

require shadows

to throw fists at.

And nuance

kills margins.

Yes —

Men have failed.

Often. Loudly.

Historically.

Systemically.

But women are not born virtuous either.

Not all, anyway.

But enough —

to deserve statutory warning

in the anthologies of pain

you only publish in pink.

Don’t heal.

Just advertise.

Don’t ask.

Just accuse.

Don’t understand.

Just edit him out of the narrative.

Set fire to the man —

not for his crimes,

but for being inconvenient

to the best-selling plot twist.

Say it loud:

"Men built the patriarchy."

Maybe they did.

But if it is a prison —

why do so many

volunteer to be jailors?

Why did feminism

need fathers, brothers, sons

to first survive,

before it could breathe —

why wasn't it forgotten

in the dusty desert of time

before it could breathe, 

like the girl child

whose lungs were crushed

under the weight

of inherited shame?

Erase the men

who were allies

long before allying was fashionable.

Forget the ones

who broke so their daughters wouldn’t.

Silence the ones

who never asked to be born

into an identity

you now burn

to stay warm.

Because every movement

needs martyrs.

And intricacies

don’t sell candles.

So yes —

tire him out.

Of carrying history

he never authored.

Of apologising

for chromosomes.

Of being strong

with broken scaffolding.

Of being blamed

for the fire

he too was burned by.

Not all.

But enough —

to be statistically erased.

And when you chant,

"Burn the patriarchy!"

make sure

your matchstick

is pointed

at someone

already in flames.

Because,

a cis-gendered heterosexual man 

isn't just a demographic anymore. 

He is the filthiest swear word 

in a world sponsored by radicalists 

of a thriving hate economy.