You are. I think you're honest. That's your problem. Your poor sore eyes would always give you away, the wrinkles and their folds.
You can't help yourself. It's endearing. You don't have the heart to rip me off, you know you could, you've been in the job long enough, you've been in the job a long, long time. Too long. Your instincts are good but you sit on them.
Your shirt is ruffled and your hair is somewhere between cuts and styles, your pink eyes speak of sleepless nights.
You listen to me. You know what I want. You don't try to rip me off.
on the pull of things karen karpenter 2005 (a work-in-progress)