I am an incredible man.

But incredible men die all the time.

Incredible men are forgotten.
They live alone.
They disappear without leaving a mark.
Without creating their best art.

They never have children.
Or a great love.
Or a stong book.

There are more incredible men under the earth Then you can count.

I am also pretty awful.
I’ve done things that I’m ashamed of.
I threw a cat across a room.
I spanked a child out of anger.
I’ve pressured women into sex.
I’ve stolen money.
I’ve punched walls.
Hurled insults.
Even hit myself in the head.

Worst of all.
I’ve hurt people I really love.
Out of fear.
And a need for power.
A need to control.

But awful men die all the time.

They also make lots of money.
Have sex with beautiful women.
Get promoted.
Buy really nice cars.
Have six-pack abs.
Get elected.

They die surrounded by family
They die with accolades.

There’s nothing special about being incredible.
There’s nothing special about being awful.

There’s nothing special about being a man or even being me.

And yet And yet I love myself
These small hands typing away
These small moments where only I see

How I wipe my ass
How I breathe
How I cry

Seeing that I could die
And never be sure any of it meant anything

My life is so precious
So unspecial
So incredible

I am an incredible man

But incredible men die all the time

They die alone
Without ever having children
Without ever making art

There are more incredible men under the ground
Then I could ever count