There's this boy I think of,
The chick-flick bad-boy type
But he's gentler and moral,
Which doesn't exist in real life.
He has fluffy dark hair
and wears chains around his neck,
An old vintage band-tee
falls loose across his chest.
A razor sharp jawline,
a labret in his lip,
A warmth so protective
when he holds me, I slip
Through the belt
of his baggy jeans.
They're washed out
and ripped at the knees.
I sink right in to his unlaced shoes
His hand grips my hair,
Painted black nails and silver rings,
Tattoos you didn't know were there.
He's rough around the edges
but has the softest heart
that wraps you up like he's scared
you're going to fall apart.
He's picture perfect,
this boy I've created.
But the more I analyse,
I realise
that guys are overrated.
Do I really long for him?
Or is he... me?
Or is this all just a fantasy.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVY
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, Fee writes about their experience with mental illness, gender identity, relationships and finding themself as a seventeen year old.
