Even if my hands can’t carve genius from the air,
And numbers slip through my fingers, unaware,
I’d rather stumble in silence, head bent low,
Than wear a crown of deceit, a lie’s hollow glow.

Even if my lips can’t shape the words to say,
What storms I hide, what shadows I obey,
I’d rather choke on the quiet I’ve grown to bear,
Than twist my tongue to falsehoods, too cruel to repair.

Even if my knees are weak, trembling in fight,
And I fall behind when others take flight,
I’d rather break under the weight I carry alone,
Than steal from hands that ache like my own.

I see their stares, their whispers cut deep,
In school hallways, at home, where secrets seep.
I am not their golden child, their brightest star,
But even if I’m lost, I know who I am, by far.

So call me dull, call me mute, call me frail,
But not a cheater, a liar, a thief to unveil.
Even if my worth feels as thin as air,
I’ll hold my truth — it’s all I have to declare.