One Upping

it’s the goddamn worst.

you cut your hair, her observation, expression inscrutable.

then, do you like it?

i simper yes, genuflecting under the arch of her brows,

and before i draw breath she lunges at me lockscreen first,

some bug-eyed alien, newly hatched.

my tormentor as dopey new mother is waiting for me to gush,

so i must teach her a lesson;

he’s beautiful, i say,

and i mean it.