old words, new ways
different chapter, same change
always some cents short

Your irises always sing an aqua harmony,
but I cannot make out their shades when you
sit me down to hear your tale.

If the tension in the air is any clue, there must be fear dancing
in the wrinkles around your eyes,
but I am trying to count colors. I focus to discern.

You single-handedly lay and stack each strand
of the haystack.
I burn these allergens down one by one.

You wave the needle in my face
like an escape hatch,
burn through your accusations one by one-

I examine all the women who aren’t needy whores.
I see my reflection and hear their affirmations,
and start to think that maybe I’m no needy whore myself,
until I fear these women are just whores like me-