The fist of judgment pounds the front door,
demands proof of identity,
presentation of papers.
Revelation of the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth is demanded,
even if it is counterfeit,
glued together with lies.
She never leaves through the front door,
sensing the trap.
Her documents are false,
written in code,
bearing the seal of no actual origin,
the brand of refugee
tattooed on her soul.
She was never legally born,
a pariah in her own skin,
wearing a disguise to camouflage the sin.
She has learned to caress the right one,
while yearning for the wrong one,
disappearing out the back door,
a spy in the war on love.