We play dress-ups and
you are the monster
while I am the queen
I wear a pretty dress
mascara, lipstick
the whole ******
thing
And you hide under
the bed

You are too terrible
to be seen

You are the reason
children take a running
leap from the door
to the bed and
over the floor
(lest something awful
grab their ankles and
shake the muffled
shrieks from them
no, no, no (no
okay... yes)

We play dress-ups
have smokes between
acts, mommies and
aunties and all pretty
women smoke lovely
cigarettes

(you, stay under the
bed)

I think she was there
the entire time, watching
my thighs, shins, ankles
feet disappear each
night and
I should've heard
it breathing, her
under his side
of the bed
while he was ******* me
he was ******* her
in her head

Let's play dress-ups
let's pretend he is the man
and you are the woman
in his demented scheme

(I imagine her mouth full
of his kind of love, something
dreadful indeed

anything to accommodate
his seething hate)

Open wide and she is
full as a balloon on a Sunday
afternoon birthday party
in June, pretty dresses
and ugly, dead
inside

Let's play dress-ups
I am the queen and you

You are that infernal machine
called hate