Black men don’t get anxiety

We just wake up at 3 a.m.,
staring at the ceiling fan,
like it might whisper an answer.

We just sit in the car, outside our home,
with the engine off, music low,
trying to remember if this is a place
we are allowed to rest.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just hear our father’s silence like a hymn,
and carry weight in our chests like a birthright.
A weight no one sees,
a weight we’ll never put down.

We just feel like our mouths are loaded guns.
Every syllable a misfire.
Our tongues, tripwires.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

That’s what they slip into our pockets when we’re boys.
Fold into our hands like a blueprint,
tell us to build something strong out of it.

Black boys don’t get anxiety.

We just have to stop all that crying.
Grow up. Fast,
like the world’s already tired of our childhood.
Trade toy soldiers for real battles,
quiet ones, inside.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just grind our teeth down to dust,
we just have pressure in our heads,
we just get tension in our jaws, so tight,
we forget we ever had mouths that could pray.

We don’t pray enough.

Black men don’t get anxiety,

but our bodies keep shaking
like they’re screaming.
And our mothers keep calling,
like they can hear it.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just need to calm down, need to relax,
need to stop making everything so complicated.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just smoke a little bit,
we just drink a little bit.
Fuck to forget our name for a while.
Drink a little more to forget hers too.

Black men don’t get anxiety.
We just have a fear of commitment.
Hearts that learned to love
with one foot already out the door.
We just need to open up more,
but not too much.
We just need to be more vulnerable,
but not too vulnerable.

We just need to be men.

(but not those kinds of men)

Strong Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just laugh at the wrong times,
jokes sharp enough to slice open the parts of ourselves
that ache too much to even touch any other way.

Black men don’t get anxiety.
We don’t have a reason to be nervous...
what, are we guilty or something?
Are we scared?

Real Black men don’t get anxiety.

We get attitude problems.
We get trust issues.
We get emotionally unavailable.
We get hard to talk to.

We just need to stop being so negative all the time.

Positive Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just check the exits when we walk in a room.
Sit with our backs to the wall.
Memorize every face in the room
that stares too long, and stands too close.

Call it how we were raised,
call it survival dressed up as instinct.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just don’t say what we need,
we don’t ask to be held.
We don’t admit her warmth frightens us more
than any empty street at midnight,
than any red and blue siren,
than any white judge’s gavel falling.

Black men don’t get anxiety.

We just wake up mad.
We just wake up tired.
We just wake up anyway.
At 3 a.m.
Staring at the ceiling fan,
like it might whisper an answer.