I like loving bad boys because finding someone’s soft spot feels like a quiet and slow form of art, like finding a tiny, maybe even undiscovered hole in a wired fence and managing to climb through it without grazing the sharp edges to find a huge, colourful garden blossoming for you only, an oasis of chirping birds and warm breezes and grass tickling your calves. And entering this place feels like magic, like a fairytale come true because most people are naively convinced that it does not exist. I like loving bad boys because I want to know what their rusty voices sound like when they’re soft in a dark bedroom late at night or how the rough surfaces of their tattoos feel on top of goosebumps. I like loving bad boys because no matter how soft you turn they’ll admire it and, no matter how bad you are, they’ll recognise themselves in you. I like loving bad boys because people keep telling me I shouldn’t. Most of all, I like loving bad boys because they’re all bad. And good, too. Like myself.