June arrives with banners hung,
Celebrations so bright,
voices rising like sunlight
through streets that once knew silence.
But in another corner of the month,
a quieter gathering sits.
No parade of hidden battles.
No confetti for the man
who learned to swallow grief
before he learned to shave.
The father who says, “I’m fine,”
while carrying storms in his chest.
The brother who laughs the loudest
because no one asks why he’s hurting.
The son who stares at the ceiling at midnight,
negotiating with shadows
he cannot name aloud.
We taught too many men
that strength was a locked door,
that tears were debts,
that vulnerability was surrender.
And so some suffer in silence,
wearing courage like armor
until the armor becomes a cage.
I know this silence well.
There were nights
when I stared into the ceiling’s darkness,
counting hours instead of sleep,
trying to outrun thoughts
that always seemed to know my address.
I have learned that survival
is not a finish line.
Some days,
the distance between healing
and the deep end
feels shorter than I would like to admit.
The mind remembers old roads.
And though I stand here now,
speaking these words,
I know how easily a person
can find himself
face to face with that darkness again.
Oh, how easy.
That is why this matters to me.
Not as a headline.
Not as a statistic.
But as a life I have lived.
This June, like last June,
let us speak their names:
the men still fighting,
the men still healing,
the men we lost
because pain became heavier
than hope.
Let us remind every man
that he is more than a provider,
more than a protector,
more than the mask he wears
for the comfort of others.
He is human.
And being human means
he is allowed to break,
allowed to ask,
allowed to reach,
allowed to stay.
June speaks twice.
And I write this
not as an outsider looking in,
nor to diminish Pride,
nor to cast a shadow
over the joy that June can hold.
I am a gay poet.
I know the value of being seen,
of living openly,
of celebrating who we are.
I know what it means
to have a month dedicated
to visibility and dignity.
But this year,
my pen turns toward another silence.
Not because Pride does not matter,
but because men’s mental health
matters deeply to me.
Because behind too many smiles
are battles left unnamed.
Because too many men
still suffer alone.
Because too many voices
have been lost before they believed
they could ask for help.
And if my words can carry
one conversation,
one confession,
one reason to stay,
then this is where my attention rests.
One voice celebrates identity.
The other asks a question
that may save a life:
“Brother,
how are you really doing?”
May we listen long enough
to hear the answer.