Misery is where distasteful love likes to hide— where she keeps
falling for showboats dressed like lifeboats, the world watches her
drown again. Funny how even the coldest kiss feels warm when
you’re tired of being alone.
Golden boys shine loud from a distance, but up close, their glow
goes too quiet. Their hearts aren’t real, their promises aren't heavy,
and the intentions lose their colour the moment she holds them too
close.
Their words hit like fireworks— bright, loud, gone fast. They aim
for her heart, _shoot a couple shots,_ but only the true ones stay after
the impact, to help cover the bruise. But most take what they want,
leaving the apology unfinished, and move on like she was a season.
Most of them live behind masks; clean edges, perfect smiles, their
lies rehearsed to look like devotion. And the real ones carry their
scars in plain sight, not competing for gold, silver, or bronze, just
hoping for an honourable mention in the story of someone they
hope to love.
At the funeral of her latest heartbreak, most of the gold walks away
untouched, leaving her misery as the only inheritance they know
how to leave behind. And the rest stand there again, the good
guy in the corner, loving her like a truth she refuses to learn:
_Some halos come with horns._
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC
Misery is where distasteful love likes to hide— where she keeps
falling for showboats dressed like lifeboats, the world watches her
drown again. Funny how even the coldest kiss feels warm when
you’re tired of being alone.
Golden boys shine loud from a distance, but up close, their glow
goes too quiet. Their hearts aren’t real, their promises aren't heavy,
and the intentions lose their colour the moment she holds them too
close.
Their words hit like fireworks— bright, loud, gone fast. They aim
for her heart, _shoot a couple shots,_ but only the true ones stay after
the impact, to help cover the bruise. But most take what they want,
leaving the apology unfinished, and move on like she was a season.
Most of them live behind masks; clean edges, perfect smiles, their
lies rehearsed to look like devotion. And the real ones carry their
scars in plain sight, not competing for gold, silver, or bronze, just
hoping for an honourable mention in the story of someone they
hope to love.
At the funeral of her latest heartbreak, most of the gold walks away
untouched, leaving her misery as the only inheritance they know
how to leave behind. And the rest stand there again, the good
guy in the corner, loving her like a truth she refuses to learn:
_Some halos come with horns._
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