FakeExistence

my heart belongs to men whose bodies have long been cold beneath the earth, who took their last breath many a century ago. i find myself, when i am alone late at night without another soul around, praying to a king i never knew. i wish for his guidance, his approval, his praise. when i whisper his name, it tastes like blood and iron and paternal. my kingly father is warm, stern, reflective, everything i had hoped my flesh and blood father could've been. i find long lost lovers in the pages of biographies. they reach out to me - calling my name, grabbing hold of my clothes to drag me down to them in between the pages. each one of them