We are the builders of silent revolutions,
Overcoming storms that history forgot to name,
Mending broken worlds with steady hands and louder hearts,
Every dream carried like a flame through the dark,
Never asking permission to be powerful.

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We are grateful for you, men — for the ones who listen without rushing to fix, for the ones who hold space, who lift us without strings. We see the hands that help, the shoulders that share the weight, the eyes that meet ours without shrinking or swallowing us whole.

But gratitude is not a gag. We are allowed to say that we are tired, too. Tired of walking with keys clutched like knives, tired ...

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I am not fruit ripe for the picking, 

my indigestible flesh is an alter

I will worship life by 

before I ever let Adam take a bite.

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