The Villain You Invented

You said at dinner, with a smirk on your face,

That I’ve been molding young minds out of place.

You called me the villain, a quiet deceiver,

A trainer of robots, a secret believer.

But let me remind you, before you declare,

That teaching is labor wrapped up in care.

I don’t practice spells, I don’t pull strings—

I’m teaching small humans the simplest things.

I show them that books are doors they can open,

That dreams are alive, and futures unbroken.

I patch their small wounds with band-aids and glue,

Because some hurts at home follow them to school too.

I’ve learned how to shelter a class in the dark,

To listen for danger, to wait for the spark.

I know how to calm a trembling hand,

To make the afraid feel they still can stand.

I’ve memorized exits, rehearsed where to hide,

I carry the weight of each child inside.

And yet you reduce this to “controlling their thought,”

When all I have given is love that I brought.

So think what you will—repeat what you’ve heard.

But don’t call me a villain for keeping my word.

I am no brainwasher, no thief of their will,

I’m the one who reminds them: they matter still.