the tragedy is not knowing

I read a short poem  
about someone who loved  
the way men love  
and it was like watching  
an alien film with English words  
because I can't say  
with any conviction  
that I love the way  
men love  
 
All the men in my life  
love selfishly  
they love controllingly  
and manipulatively  
they love absently  
they love with blocked ears
and closed eyes  
they love so neglectfully  
they're always surprised  
when love leaves them  
like they were good men  
who were done dirty  
by cruel women  
while never taking the time  
to see that the love they wanted
was the love they squandered  
by never loving  
with open hands  
open ears  
and open eyes  
 
So many times I've sought
compassion or understanding  
and I've been met with anger  
or disbelief  
or had my own experiences
mansplained to me  
like I wasn't there  
and couldn't possibly  
be a reliable narrator  
of my own life  
 
I've learnt to say  
I'm tired or I have a headache  
or it's been a long week  
with a fake smile added in  
for bonus male comfort  
because God forbid  
I be fucking honest  
only to be yelled at  
or told I'm wrong  
or just not trying hard enough  
 
I read a short poem  
about someone who loved  
the way men love  
and I wish I could fucking relate  
I wish I could look at the men  
in my life  
see something more  
than privileged tragedy