I. The First Sanctuary

I was taught that self-love was a stone in the path of the soul.

That serving the collective was the only way to be whole.

But my outreach was a well that ran dry in the night.

While I waited for a phone call or a flicker of light

That never came from those I labored to save.

I am not selfish for stepping back from the grave

Of my own advancement, sacrificed for the rest.

I am simply putting the heartbeat back in my chest.

I am transitioning now, beautiful and bright.

Into the transwoman the patriarchy fears in the light.

Not a "wretched creature" or a figure of scorn,

But a self-focused spirit, newly reborn.

II. The Fractured Compass

It is hard to love the lonely, the crip, and the poor.

In a world that keeps locking the "able-bodied" door.

I walk past the hungry with a fractured moral guide.

Struggling to survive while the "blessed" reside

In mansions of marriage, status, and gold,

While I am the "abomination" they’ve already sold.

I wonder if the Torah would have offered a shield.

Or if the rigidity had forced me to yield

Every desire my heart and body possess.

How can nature be unholy? How can I confess

To the crime of attraction that God supposedly made?

I refuse to be beaten by the zealot’s crusade.

Who uses psychological strings for their joy?

Treating my soul like a broken-down toy.

III. Wolves in Borsalino Hats

The rabbis claim faith flicks the darkness away.

But prayer doesn't stop the heart's natural sway

When a handsome man passes, or the body feels heat.

They’ve carved out a world where I’m dead on the street.

Unless I wear the penguin suit, the fangs, and the fur,

Hiding the "Pink Rabbi" beneath a gray blur.

They cover their status in suits and expensive hats.

While they rationalize suffering like religious bureaucrats.

I am still undoing the mental oppression they sowed.

The lie that I’m unworthy of the love I am owed.

Even in the "Liberal Big Apple," the competition is raw.

Everyone is beating each other with survival's claw.

Judging the poor or the ones who dare to break free,

Ignoring the broken while they claim to be "us."

IV. The Middle Ground

I am louder on paper than I am in the crowd.

Healed by my words, while the siddur is loud

With the voices of men who never saw my own face.

I’m blocking the bloodlines that trade in disgrace.

Who needs to shame me to feel they are right?

I exist in the middle, in the gray, in the light—

Not a total denier, nor a believer in "just."

But one who can marvel at the design in the dust.

We are all mortal, aging, and destined for the ground.

Where the same equalizers are eventually found.

The pocketbook empties, the slurs fade away.

As the next generation takes over the day.

I hope they are evolved enough to finally see

The image of God in the radical me.

V. The Tribal Exile

When I emerged into my light, my own blood turned to stone.

Abandoning the daughter they claimed to have known.

I found more shelter in the "dehumanized" outside.

Where those they call "goyim" opened their arms wide.

I am caught in the crossfire, a target for every side.

Where queerphobia and antisemitism collide.

Jews and Gentiles both hurl their poison at my door.

While I internalize the venom and the tribal war.

They are glorified for hatred, praised for their zeal,

While I am blamed for the very wounds I feel.

They weaponize Hashem’s name to label me as "evil."

Turning divine mercy into something medieval.

VI. The Upside-Down World

It is an upside-down world where bigotry is "divine."

And they pride themselves on judging every line.

They believe they are holier, yet they bully for free.

In a mass philosophy centered on breaking me.

I search for a witness, for someone to heal the ache.

In a world that targets me for every breath I take.

They falsely claim that the closet is a place of rest.

That hiding my spirit would put the violence to the test.

But the pack never saved me; the "safe spaces" lied.

As both Jews and queers pushed me aside.

I am called a "whiner" for speaking my truth.

So I turn to my art to reclaim my youth.

VII. The Bible of Ink and Color

My artwork is my Bible, my canvas is my scroll,

For the Torah has no instructions for this fractured soul.

It offers no map for the madness of this birth.

No shield against the violence that walks upon the earth.

They label me "flamboyant," "weird," and "different."

Trapped in a "normalcy" that is cold and indifferent.

They hide behind regalia, rituals, and deceit.

Running from the mirrors, they are too afraid to meet.

They think their false gods will protect them from the end.

While they gossip in my sleep and refuse to be friends.

I am tired of the labels, the "blasphemy" they scream.

While they ignore the common ground of a human dream.

VIII. Radical Liberation

I want my memory to be a blessing, authentic and clear.

Not the ghost of a follower suppressed by fear.

We are led by the "sanctified" who defile the small.

With "priests in the streets" who have no soul at all.

My father’s voice echoes: "Examine the deed,

Not the lofty words or the religious creed."

The progressive and the zealot often sound the same.

Playing the same power-hungry, exclusionary game.

True liberation is found when we are radically unique.

Without the shame that makes the spirit weak.

We can coexist, break bread, and share the light.

Empowering each other without the need to be "right."