I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I’m not like you.

I’m sorry I don’t know my place.

I’m sorry I mumble and stutter,

feel myself losing this race.

I’m sorry I can’t be who you wanted.

I’m sorry I won’t fit your mold.

I’m sorry I make us all look bad.

I’m sorry I don’t do what I’m told.

I’m sorry I forget things.

I’m sorry I never finish what I start.

I’m sorry I ruin the rhythm.

I’m sorry I keep breaking your heart.

I’m sorry I can’t sit still.

My brain doesn’t work quite the same.

I’m sorry I can’t fix the problem.

I’m sorry I don’t carry more shame.

I learned to apologize early —

before I knew what I’d done wrong.

If something cracked, I claimed it.

If something failed, it was mine all along.

I said sorry to keep the peace,

to soften the room, to stay.

I learned that silence was safer

than asking why I was made this way.

I’m sorry you couldn’t see the beauty

in the cracks you tried to erase.

I’m sorry you mistook difference

for something that needed to be replaced.

But maybe the problem was never my wiring,

never my pace, never my mind.

Maybe the failure was a world

that only honors one narrow design.

Because I was never broken —

just built without room to bend.

So I’m done apologizing for existing

in a system that couldn’t comprehend.

You weren’t made like the others.

You carry what they never found.

Let that fire live inside you.

Burn their blueprints to the ground.