worship:

Summer night, the air heavy with moisture.

Thick with perfume.

In the past I believed my mother loved my

face better when it was worn by my father.

I mourn my lost connection to magic.

My heart doesn’t burn like it used to.

Not like this.

Tinder in search of a spark.

I still wait.

Never felt comforted,

being an object of worship.

I let the lord run his fingers on my skin,

through my hair.

Taught me the meaning of divinity.