All the pretty angel boys are nothing but grotesque. Their wings wilt velvet-black beneath the light, stitched smiles too tight, and love like glass—sharp, soft, and broken best. 

They’ll never live up to the beautifully defined—only the broken and bruised. He’d learned that much. And hearing unapologetic words—even the half-assed apologetic ones—seared his mind like branded wings: **a punishment for ever believing beauty meant kindness.**

The pretty angel boys put out their hands, palms down. 

Dead things don’t reach for you. They wait.

And dead boys don’t offer comfort. Just weight. Weighing on your chest.

Your bones.

Underneath your skin. 

Too much. Too long. Too late. 

There’s no resurrection for a body that doesn’t bleed or breathe. Because maybe that’s all he ever was—lifeless, still, grotesque.

Weight mistaken for wings.