Lurking in the murk,
underneath the dirt—
Mommy's Little Monster
is tired of the hurt.
Built from what wasn't given,
made from what I took—
Daddy's Little Demon
is writing a new book.
Rain and thunder,
the stuff down under—
a brand new hunger,
churns,
turns,
inside my little gut.
I'm not stuck.
Do you want to play, today—
tea party, dolls,
snakes of clay?
What role is yours—
doctor,
patient,
pharmacist,
whatever you wish.
Let me put on my wings.
My cape.
My fangs.
My face.
Give me a kiss.