There are times when I wish I my father hadn’t died. When I wish I could somehow go back in time and try to keep him alive. Maybe he had lost his will to live and had nothing to fight for. Maybe I could’ve been that person he would fight for.
Maybe one day, I’ll see him again. And we could start what never had a chance to begin. A friendship, a bond, something tangible.
Because now all I have is a handful of thoughts and feelings.
When I’m at my weakest and feeling low, there’s not a man I can talk to who doesn’t have a dick and isn’t trying to have sex with me because I’m so vulnerable. I never got that from a male, and I probably never will.
I wonder why I feel that I need that. What in me makes me want that? I don’t know. But it’s real.
There’s something about that strong embrace. The strength that makes my pain go away. The advice from the opposite sex. It all makes a difference.
What’s sad is this will never change. My father can’t come back from the dead. I just pray he hears me, reads this, or feels me. I love you, daddy. Rest in peace.
