A suitcase of facades
rests in a musty basement corner
that she sprayed with old cologne.
She exhales misguided motives.
Cobwebs spread along the case’s length.
What’s inside is still a key without a lock.
A breath forced its way under her tongue
as she dreads the day that he thumbs
through the enclosed papers.
A father to a kid he raised
only he believed was his,
behind the flickering basement light
conceals a secret sealed with a kiss.
A DNA test, as well as simply time,
can attest that he is not the father.
She set the bag on fire.
It didn’t burn, though.
I’m the kid who found out
that you’re not my father.
Twitter – @AC0040
(© 2023 AC)
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