I knocked on the door
of my father's study,
I could feel the paper
burning into my back
pocket.
"D-Dad?" My voice
echoed through the
frames of his diplomas
hanging against the
skin of the house. "Mom?"
"Yes, sweetie?" They both looked
up from their paperwork.
Dad greeted me with a smile
that raised his mustache to the
peak of the mountains.
"I need to talk to you and mom."
My hands stuttered as I
handed over the letter.
"What is this, love?" Mom
reached over and peered at
the delicately folded tree.
"I received a letter the other
day and I think it would be best
to show it to you first before I did
anything. I don't want you to think
I'm betraying you or anything like that..."
My voice drowned into the packets
of papers resting on the desk.
"From who?" Dad asked, with a puzzled
vibration in his voice.
"My biological mother."
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
