Their whispers
seep through
the wall vents,
the crackle in the phone,
the inch space underneath their bedroom door.
They fake normalcy.
A pair of
spies
devising plans
to deal with
their children,
their belongings,
their money.
I silently holler
the flaw
in their plan.
Fake.
My siblings remain
oblivious, but
I wonder:
Maybe they were always
faking.