I am not the best candidate for this,
I realize, now.
At the mere mention of its name,
I listen to its patrons’ confessions
and become the sinner.
“Show me your wrists,” I cry,
and my own burn like a twisted stigmata.
They are not martyrs, no; they are not God.
And yet they become a sacrifice.
“To be or not to be?” That is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler to suffer or die,
they do not yet know.
But their blindness infects my eyes
and I wonder at the fragility
of being noble.