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fiction (among the things i wish i was)

when you live in a
fictional land
you don’t live
you exist

you breathe and you cry
and you feel more than
you ever have in
the real world

you sit quietly in a corner and watch things go on
the world turning around you
on an axis too far to the left

maybe someone sits next to you
their fingers threading
through yours
but you don’t feel it much

because this is not your place
your place is in a dank, dark place
where people think
it’s alright to hurt you

and where your hand remains unheld
your place turns on an axis that is perfectly aligned
on course and stationary

turning only one way
for the entirety of
your life
much as you hate it

so you buy books upon books
and stack them high
towers of your castle

built of
paper and stone and
glue and mortar
knights at the citadel
crossbows aimed at intruders

that dare to interrupt you
and try and convince you
that you should try and live in the real world

and they speak ill of your religion when
your god is not one of
ethereal presence
but rather of words in ink

and theirs is an
intangible and unseen
force that holds their lives in his hands

and you hold your gods in
your hands
sweaty palms dampening them
just enough to mark

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