the ones who were never meant to rise

they said we were small

too soft-voiced

too easily broken

by boots, by laws, by cages

built long before we were born

they said the world belonged

to the ones who roar loudest—

the ones with titles,

with gavels,

with hands that sign away

other beings’ futures

like spilled ink

but they never understood

what grows

in the throats of the silenced

never understood

how a whisper becomes a weapon

when enough of us hold it together

never understood

that rebellion is not a sound—

it’s a pulse

shared between bodies

who have nothing left

to lose

they did not see the cracks forming

in their quiet empire

when the children of the factory farms

locked eyes with the children

of the factory floors

and something ancient

passed between them—

a recognition older than language

you are hurt.

so am i.

they built this for our breaking.

we could unbuild it.

they did not hear the footfalls

of workers walking off the line

in the same rhythm

as hooves that never touched grass

did not notice the way

the underfed and the overworked

began to march

in step

with the overbred and the overused

did not feel the tremor

as every species of the unnamed,

unseen, uncounted

shifted their weight

from despair

to defiance

we learned rebellion together

not from theory

but from surviving the same hands

and if we rise

(and we will rise)

it will not be with the roar

of a single creature

but with the combined breath

of every being

who was never meant

to make it this far

we are the underdogs

the undervalued

the underfed

the underestimated

and in the quiet before the break

we finally learned our truth—

they built the cages

but we built the courage

to leave them.