I Can't Believe You're 38 And Single

You have to believe me when I tell you that I’m not used to this.
I’m not used to women throwing themselves at me.
And I’m certainly not used to more than 1 woman
throwing themselves at me at the exact same time.
I’m currently attracting them from as far away as 10 kilometres.
If you could see the queen butterfly
in her black cocktail dress, with the
red rose in her ice-blonde peroxide hair
smiling her champagne smile, you’d think me a fool.
And you wouldn’t be alone in that. For I’m looking at her,
and I’m thinking me a fool too. A fool in sheep’s clothing.
“I can’t believe you’re 38 and single” are the words she says
as she sits down beside me and rests her head upon my shoulder.
And I think she means it in a nice way.
Look, I’m still broken, is what I say to her.
I'm sorry, but I’m still hurting is my excuse.
But the truth is that I’m too scared.
The truth is that I’ll only disappoint.
The truth is I need to floss more regularly.
The truth is I need to trim my nasal hairs
freeze that verruca on my right big toe
and get my Templeton skin-tag removed.
It’s better this way, I tell myself. And that’s the truth of the matter.
But since when did the truth have anything to do with these things?