Author Information
Her Inner Child
Go right ahead
and get mad at me,
lean back against
the bedroom
door, pose for me
in your panties
and bra. Excite me
like wine stains
on a white shirt. Hold
up your birth
certificate. The one
that proves you
are no longer a child
but has little
footprints stamped
across the bottom,
with a few smudges
and stains. You know
that I hate those
piddling splotches.
