I have never looked at a lamb and wished it had horns.
I have never looked at its purity, its innocence, and thought it naivety.
And I am no sheep.
I didn’t bah because I hadn’t found my voice.
I was a lamb.
And lambs are led to slaughter—
at least, in this world.

But if I could paint a picture,
if I could rewrite scripture,
I’d let lambs be lambs.
I’d admire their ability to remain soft and trusting.
I’d tell the herd to protect them from wolves
until they knew how to spot them.
But the herd would know to do that anyway—
at least, in my world.

Because the herd would know that, after all,
it’s a lamb.
And all a lamb needs is a little patience,
a little time to be a lamb.
For in my world,
they wouldn’t be led to slaughter.

But this world doesn’t belong to me.
And lambs are sacrificed.
And wolves will tear me apart from limb to limb
and I will be left
with nothing but the corpse of white wool
that was “too nice” and “too trusting.”
And they’ll tell me it was my fault—
for being a lamb.

They’ll say, “If only you were a wolf.
If only you wore sheep clothing.”
But I—
I was weakened by honesty,
worn down by the days
that I refused to cloak myself in wolf skin.
I just wanted to be what I am.
I just wanted to be a lamb.

I was led to my death
while the wolves called it “just business.”
Even in gory death, I’d still choose to be what I am.
Even in gory death, I’d still choose to be a lamb.