You are an odd sock individual with
Threads of gold braided into your hair. 
Skipping over silver chains and leather belts,
I wonder how you stay so relatively positive under
Black latex circumstances.
Counting to ten while fantasising over 
Feather dusters and handcuffs
Swallow that sinking feeling as 
London wraps it’s fingers around your throat. 
Wearing fishnet tights under your, 
Introvert nature, 
Deep thinker, 
Crippling innocence. 
You were told  you’re ‘good at sucking.’
Strawberry milkshake out of a broken straw, 
Spitting chewing gum on the side of the road. 
Fetishising beer bottles and quiet girls. 
When I look at you I think,
‘You strange, strange man.’