funny how we are all born the same,
soft-skinned,
wide-eyed,
without hatred in our hands,
yet somehow
grow into entirely different monsters.
The world is patient.
It carves itself into us,
teaches some that kindness is weakness,
teaches others that pain is inheritance.
Some are born with full plates
and call it hard work.
Others arrive empty-handed
and spend their lives apologizing for it.
Some become
the person they once begged for in the dark—
a shelter,
a voice,
a hand reaching back.
Others become
the things that kept them awake at night,
passing their wounds along
like family heirlooms.
And not a day goes by
that I don't wonder:
Are villains ever born?
Or are they shaped,
slowly,
by a world that mistakes cruelty for strength?