I didn’t choose that path back then.
I was afraid. Too oft warned of the
Consequence of being myself.

I am Janice Joy, not Joy Elizabeth,
The child whose body lay in blood
That hot August day.

The dogs were gone, and my arm
Still whole, yet wrapped in bloody
Cotton torn from the shirt of my hero.

I have chosen the wrong path
Again and again, wondering of the
Consequence of truth, or opening the door.

It’s been the devil waiting there
To test the sacredness of life,
And prove that Jews are not a chosen few.

Who knew a child could prove them wrong,
Come back again, and with a song
Remind these demons of eternity?

Yet still, the pain of death and life
Is not a pastime I adore
Or want still more.

No.

I am done being her.
Probably the wrong path again
To take in this fascist state.