Whose Mistake?

You were born with two hands,

ten fingers full of questions,

a heartbeat loud enough

to prove you existed.

That should have been enough.

But the world looked at your name

before it looked at your face.

It weighed your worth

on a scale built long before

you learned to walk.

They taught you shame

before they taught you dreams.

They pointed at your hunger

and called it destiny.

They called your poverty a crime,

your caste a curse,

your birth a mistake.

So you began to hate yourself

your voice,

your shadow,

your very arrival into this world.

Dear, child,

what was your crime?

Was it being born to empty pockets?

Was it being born into a name

they refuse to touch?

Or was it simply being born at all?

No—

the mistake was never you.

The mistake is a society

that worships gods

but refuses humanity.

A society that builds temples of stone

and walls of flesh.

A society that teaches children

to bow instead of rise.

You owe them no apology.

Your birth was not an error;

their hatred is.

So stand up

not with weapons,

but with spine.

With questions sharp as truth.

With dignity they tried to steal.

Let your existence itself

be rebellion.

Let your survival be resistance.

Let your voice shake the ground

that told you to stay low.

You were not born to be silent.

You were born

to prove them wrong.