Shakespeare doesn’t give a flying fuck
if you like his sunglasses. Doesn’t care.
Wears them
cuz he wants to, cuz they feel good, cuz he knows
he can rock some fukkin pink. Shakespeare
likes to wear his pink wayfarers
down to the market, lean up against a wall,
leave everyone wondering whether
he’s looking at them.
Shakespeare likes
to stare at people with his head turned away
so they’d never think, likes to dissect
their characters with no repercussions; this way
he can stare as long as he wants. Shakespeare
can’t write without his sunglasses, can’t fuck
without his sunglasses, refuses to come to the door
if he can’t find them.
Shakespeare never wore that collar
until he got them sunglasses, and even then he only got
it
cuz they looked baller as fuck together. Shakespeare wore
his sunglasses to meet the queen, no lie, spent
the whole time face tilted toward her perfect shoes, his
eyes
burning straight into hers, unabashed.
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