by

Angela Lovell

 

a little creature lurks behind one of my closet doors
playing dress-up with my things
and when I find her and get a hold of that ponytail
bitch is going down

inner children should stay inside
unseen
unheard
without persisting I wear more lipstick
or that fluffy sweater

she takes too much of my time
"play that one song, we have to hear that one song before leaving for work..."
and then there's underwear dancing
making me fifteen minutes late
the song wasn't even that good
and she still likes old Madonna
which annoys me

I will not have children until she moves out
which means I will probably never have children
or old age
or depression
or a peaceful afternoon "alone."