Legs. Sprouting from above. Some long. Some short. Some thin. Some fat.

But what difference should it make? I'm hungry and I've just landed myself a human buffet. Focus, I tell myself, keep your eyes on the prize.

I decided it's best to stay low. We all know how humans get when they see a fin break the surface.

I look up. My mouth waters- not literally, of course, 'cause I'm underwater.

There are just too many options. I don't even know where to start. It makes sense that I should go for some long legs, right? But the longer the legs, the more of a fight they'd be able to put up. Alright, long legs are off the table.

How about short legs?

Too difficult to get a hold on.

Thin legs?

I'll pass. The meat-to-bone ratio is horrible.

Fat legs?

Nah, way too much meat to chew through...

...you know what, fuck it. I'm going home. I'm not even that hungry anyway.

Real men cry in broad daylight.

With nightfall, solitude tags along,

and in the moon's arrival,

some find the time to cry.

But why wait for nightfall?

Why wait for solitude?

Why hold back on your tears

when you know they are ready to flow?

We are told to choke all emotion,

put a stopper on all weakness.

So we do as we're told

and soon enough,

we forget how to feel properly.

But to those whose manhood

isn't bound to them as a facade:

you are the men with the strength to cry

in broad daylight.