Written by B. C. Weaver

“The Divine makes her home everywhere. Not the Worshipped, though.”

“Sacred,” read by B. C. Weaver

I was just 15 when I experienced what it meant to be Sacred. 

My pale body, naked – illuminated by only the light of my computer screen. 

His face, his smile on the other side of the screen, his teeth were like white coins tossed into the offering plate of my Sacred temple. 

Those coins – the transactional exchange made between Worshiper and Worshipped. 

Those coins would pay for the Temple’s utilities of peace and affirmation. I suppose even Sacred spaces have to keep the lights on. 

This Temple – this body – only partially constructed… not yet ready to open it’s Sacred doors to eager Worshippers. 

But what are Worshippers to do if they’re so moved towards Temples not yet ready for them? 

Are Worshippers to wait? 

Are Worshippers to pause? 

Are Worshippers not to do the only thing they know to do – worship?

No. Worshippers will do what they are meant to do. And sometimes – worship is ravenous. 

Sometimes worship is desperation. 

Sometimes worship is all-consuming. 

I now know why I am not Divine. I now know why I am the Sacred and Worshiped inside this Temple but not God herself. 

I no longer want to be worshipped. 

The Divine makes her home everywhere. Not the Worshipped, though. 

The Worshipped is bound only to this Temple. 

But worship that ravenous turns unguarded Temples to rubble – the Worshipped – the Sacred – is left without a home. 

Fleeing Sacred soul, forced out of this desecrated Temple. 

The Worshiper, no longer drawn to this place.

There is nothing left to worship here.

This temple, this abandoned secular temple, is now nothing more than stone.

Check this poem out in print in Serpentine Vol. 2!