THE SHEPHERD PROBLEM

I memorized the words

because they sounded like permission.

Because they came preloaded with meaning

so I didn’t have to generate my own.

I said the verse.

People froze.

That’s how I knew it worked.

I said the verse

and the room rearranged itself.

Tables obeyed.

Breathing changed shape.

The verse didn’t make me righteous—

it made me efficient.

Say the words.

Pull the trigger.

Call it order.

I never asked who wrote it.

I never asked why it wasn’t real.

I just liked how it landed

after the last syllable

hung in the air

like a verdict.

Funny thing—

the verse doesn’t mention me.

Doesn’t mention doubt.

Doesn’t mention the part

where your hands keep shaking

even after the threat is gone.

If I’m the hand of God

why do I feel replaceable?

If I’m the righteous path

why does it end in noise?

I said the words

and nothing changed inside me.

I said the words

and the words said nothing back.

—who decides what weak means?

—who benefits from the math?

—what if vengeance is just fear with choreography?

There’s a moment

after power works

where it looks at you

and waits.

Not for another verse.

For a decision.

I realized I liked the verse

because it removed choice.

Because it made violence feel ancient.

I could pretend it wasn’t mine.

The verse isn’t holy.

It’s just loud.

And loud things

don’t ask permission.

What if the shepherd

is the one who shuts up?

What if the miracle

is restraint?

No applause.

No witnesses.

Just walking away

from the role

everyone already applauded you for playing.

I don’t want to be the storm anymore.

Storms are easy.

They never have to explain themselves.

If there’s a righteous path,

it’s not straight.

It hesitates.

It asks questions.

It lets the verse

rot on the floor.

I still remember the words.

They just don’t work on me now.

Maybe that’s faith.

Maybe that’s failure.

Either way—

I’m done hiding behind scripture

that doesn’t bleed.