Softness as Resistance

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

They say we are broken—
boys with lip gloss smudged on cigarette filters,
our laughter too light to carry history,
our hips speaking languages they’ve banned.

We want men, yes—
the ones with motor grease beneath their nails,
who smell of rain-soaked laundry and cheap cologne,
who call us names by day,
but lie in our rented rooms at night,
bones grateful for softness.

We feed them—
the broth scalding our fingers,
coins scraped from wallets worn thin
by love that expects nothing back.

We send them to school,
not for thanks,
but for the dream of their names stitched
on barong tags, their shoes clicking
on government hallways.

They—men with God’s permission to speak first—
preach perfection from bar stools,
but cannot hold another man’s pain.