My mind:
a prison
and a temple.
Inside:
hidden
unsheltered.
I worship in chains
with my feet in a grave
nailed to the altar
with nothing to offer.
“Sacrifice! Sacrifice!”
screams my own shadow.
A spiritual rite
to earn what I sold.
Love cannot be bought
but hate is free
the mold that they’ve taught
is smothering me.
Righteous and blameless
innocent as doves
burn to be shameless
while wearing black gloves.
Clean and free
hiding my soul
don’t sit beside me
you swallow me whole.
Everyone has an image of what being righteous looks like. For some, it means being rid of a specific issue, for others, it means achieving something. This poem seems to be touching on the perspective that being righteous means being like others—a specific set of individuals known only to the narrator. Throughout the poem the narrator makes desperate attempts to be accepted into this group, or rather, to be like them. They follow their rituals and worship in their temple, but, no matter what they sacrifice, the narrator seems to realize that the only way to be like them is to hide their soul, to cover up their burned hands beneath black gloves. In becoming like them, the narrator trades their soul for the appearance of redemption. And yet, as we see at the end of the poem, the narrator is still crippled by constant comparison between themselves and their fellow “redeemed.”
Sadly, I believe this conflict can be incredibly powerful when given the chance to grow within religion. Considering spirituality is the pursuit of becoming righteous and finding salvation, it’s natural that we as humans compare ourselves based on what we can see because our souls are hidden. If we aren’t careful, this can become a mental standard for righteousness. We can lean toward believing that only once we fit a religious mold can we be saved. If we look closely and carefully, I believe we all have burnt hands and shouldn’t be covering them up. Exposing our damaged parts allows us to heal them. A place where love and redemption are proclaimed is where openness and acceptance should be felt most.
It also must be noted that this poem begins by clarifying that this conflict takes place inside the narrator's mind. This is an important distinction to make, seeing as the group is not always to blame. Sometimes we deceive ourselves to the point that we begin to create fictional characters from the real ones in front of us. We assume that what they are thinking is in line with what we think of ourselves, which is often negative.
Hope Mixes
—The Translator
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