Unveiled
Unveiled in front of God, the supposed Father– lies what makes my father In front are lust-stained hands, soft flesh he possesses– starved of a mother's touch Tips soiled by yellowed nails, once grazing the hopes of his father's return Blackened lungs from long draws of the bottomless tradition of negligence One leg swollen from the parentage he has convinced himself he banished In the eyes of God, the supposed Father– that is what made my father. -Dearest Darya
