Shame Has a Name

If Shame had hands of its own, 
they’d beat across my chest, 

and rattle my very bones,

like thundering skies rumble a home. 

If Shame could hear
it’d be a silken trap,
patiently awaiting its souvenir 
to tightly weave and wrap.

If Shame had eyes
they’d be only for me,
and no matter my disguise 
could never be free. 

If Shame had lips
they’d recite appalling poetry 
as crimson bleeds and drips
from my weeping willow tree. 

When I became Satan’s helper
through no desire of my own,
Shame became my shelter
that morphed into my home. 

Shame indeed has a face,
and it revealed itself in time, 
and is now replaced 
with a face that’s no longer mine.