Poet Boy Unicorn Crazy
I am up late, again, talking to a boy who writes poems. I don’t run into many of them, who seem genuine. He’s like a real unicorn. I wonder, what does he think of me? Does he like the way my nose has a bend? How my ribs stick slightly out when I arch my back to stretch my arms after a long day?
Probably not. Poetry boys don’t really fall for me, seeing right through a tough-girl facade. Wearing Doc Martens instead of ballet flats, I won’t fool him anyway.
He wears glasses, but he isn’t blind. A boy, a poet boy unicorn, we plan to meet up. Despite the competitive nature of writers, I fall over a tweet. Or tweets about existential crises because what is more attractive than when someone’s mental issues align with your own?
Nothing. Except, when I touch myself when the heat isn’t on yet. Too cold, but just warm enough to get my mind racing about poet boy unicorn, again.
Competition. I remember I looked at his website and stared too long at his author pictures. His hands met his hair, tussled the curly Latino hair like he didn’t care that his face froze on a screen for me.
I do that thing, again, where I fall for a person a million miles away (and exaggerate the distance). I touch myself because my body needs another body and I pretend that poet unicorn boy could be my next fairy tale victim.
Lacey Trautwein is a writer living in KY with their cat, Stanley. They read poetry for Gigantic Sequins and are the Founder/EIC of Lemon Star Mag, a safe space for young writers. Find them online @lacey_trautwein