Fuckboy in sheep’s clothing
He was a fuckboy in sheep’s clothing.
He lulled her into
A false sense of security,
With a well-rehearsed act
Of emotional availability.
His claims of sensitivity and maturity
Cajoled her into sharing
Those parts of her soul
Nobody else had ever before seen.
She opened up for him.
As an over-ripe chrysalis
Cracks at the seams,
She eagerly unfolded herself,
From the safety she’d created within.
He amusedly watched
As his butterfly emerged.
Then, slowly,
With a scarcely-disguised sense
Of sadistic enjoyment,
He plucked away her wings.
Holding his clipped hostage
Just far enough away
To avoid commitment,
But close enough to guarantee a shag.
Allowing her to believe
her own insecurities
would mean she would never fly,
Yet with ferocious determination
She continued to try.
And Still,
She did not see,
That he
Was a fuckboy
In sheep’s clothing.
For he would feed her
small morsels of hope,
And titbits of possibility.
So, placated by lies,
She turned both eyes blind
To the hairbrush and hoops
Last night’s girl had left behind.
Even then,
She refused to believe
That he
Was a fuckboy in sheep’s clothing.
Because, you see
His little facade
Was very convincing indeed.
Give the man an Oscar.
Hell. Give him two!
His performance deserves international recognition,
To serve as a warning to the women of the world,
Of what men, like him, will do.
