I beg you not to crush me for the sin of being slight,
Let not my fragile form decree the measure of my right.
I beg you not to scorn me—no malice have I earned,
You don’t curse the tide for turning nor the moth for being burned.

But I know it’s in your nature, you were shaped by colder hands,
Taught that strength is only proven by the wreckage where you stand.
No one showed you tenderness, no balm to soothe your blade,
To beg for grace feels futile when the world in blood is made.

So why would you show mercy when there’s glory to be claimed?
No requiem for shadows, no lament for the unnamed.
But if you must, then grant me this: be deliberate and be swift—
Let the world not taste my trembling nor the wind my hollow rift.

My existence leaves no imprint on the ledger of this earth,
Neither curse nor benediction from the moment of my birth.
But the atoms that composed me will return to dust and dew,
And tonight, perhaps, the stars will dim as one light leaves their view.