The rich treasures in his mahogany wardrobe,
Filled with denim blues and plaid.
Slipping and zipping into worn and torn jeans,
That hang loosely from my frame.
Dressed up in Daddy’s clothes,
Fading into the pale blue wash and milky grey t-shirts.
Until the ignition scares me into retreat.
Taped and toned I could trick them all,
They wouldn’t see past my illusion.
Unless our skin clashed and convulsed together,
And the truth would be on their tongue.
