poetry fuckboys exist solely in the notes folder on my laptop and are only enigmatic because i make them so; dressed in beautiful metaphors, skipping to the measured cadences in my voice, they are a lot more colourful
really, though, my poetry fuckboys are nothing like the real ones who touch you because they’re bored and leave grey marks on your skin and probably i only write them the way i do because it makes my ugly skin seem ethereal, etched with history rather than scratched by years of carelessness
poetry lovers aren’t really real either, at least for me; more than anything, they are characters that i fall in love with because they are made of love songs i listen to and the illusion that i am capable of love; fiction based on lovers whose smiles, really, fall flat and move nothing in my heart
there is nothing real, or subconscious about the way my fingers ache for no one in particular, and attach themselves to those closest to me
boys who sometimes smile at me, girls that seem to exist only to laugh full belly laughs
and there are elements in my poems that are perhaps true and visible if you knew who i wrote about but this is not even remotely real, living between pages of poetry taking comfort in their warmth
and no matter how dressed up poetry is i am not talented enough to pass a fake as anything remotely genuine; even poetry fuckboys and poetry lovers, to whom i desperately show my poetry to prove i’m real, realise i get stale pretty fast, and eventually stop reading my poems.