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.