Again, using the prompt, to have a weak part of your personality interact with a stronger part -- in this case... well, the title is it. And that's all I'll say.
From the abandoned daughter to the family historian
Make your trees, if you have to
Bytes and megabytes of
name after name after name--
dates and documenation
limbs of your glorious roots
trees twining in the forest of your soul.
I know the truth, and so do you,
as deeply buried as you might keep it.
But you still pretend!
Fake belief that somehow
curious relatives will find you, and
gamble their comfortable lives
for a stranger they never wanted, following
dangerous trails left in spit,
blood and pixels, straight to your door.
Can you really be such an idiot?
Can you really think they'll forgive you,
coming into the light when they prefer you in the dark?
Like you really even exist to them at all!
Sneering high society does not want a
tale of sordid, secret
liaisons, better swept under history's rug.
Bringing your secret life
to the attention of anyone...
nothing good can come of it.
Trashy talk shows may like it,
hopeful for scandal, be we--they--are of a
high order, too high for such a gauche reveal.
So hoard your little lists of pretended relatives,
but heed reality: you are not welcome in your own space.
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