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Father

He would have a face identical to my own if it did not have a masculine touch and the hereditary early aging that traced the contours along his forehead and down the sides of his eyes and mouth, growing deeper with every scowl he makes and every lie he tells. The creases once showed only for a bitter face, but now show with even the blankest of expressions. It is as if every time he promised he would come visit me, a force that could sense the dishonesty engraved a year into his face. Every pit in his countenance from a hormone-ridden past must symbolize every lie that would ever be told to me, his one and only creation. But, perhaps the creations of another woman and man that do not even call him by his respected title mean more to him than the one thing he ever constructed himself. Every time he spills blood, I wonder if he recalls it is not only his own, and his blood is an element of something more, his own creation with another woman. Perhaps he sees all of this, but will continue to leak lies until the heritage touches his cheek bones and there are no longer lines and creases embedded in his face, but slits and gashes.




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