Ro'sh Ruwm (Psalm 3:3)

With downcast eyes,
I steal the shame,
and live the lesser lie,
of who I should have been
in that moment
two lifetimes ago
when I was but a mouse
in lion’s paws.

I did not squeak then
or run to nest,
too scared to move,
but slid past
sharpened teeth
to the rotting acids
that eat me still,
devouring flesh and life.

And now,
with the eyes of distance,
curse myself
and do not hear,
through all the haze,
the timid squealing,
but just that terrorizing roar.

On darker days,
I still believe the lie of ‘if’,
the borrowed shame,
the unnamed sin,
that would hold me frozen
just out of reach
of the lifter of my face.