Yeah. He’ll make you laugh before he tells you he’s hurting,
light up the room
while his own light stops working.
He walks in calm, but his head stays loud,
whole world on his back, still he stands up proud.
Got a habit of carrying everyone’s weight,
then goes home alone with the fear and hate.
He ain’t cold, he just learned that face,
’cause love gets close, then it leaves no trace.
Keeps one hand near the exit door,
even while he’s hoping you’ll give him more.
He reads every pause, every change in tone,
turns one strange word into hours alone.
He’ll blame himself before blaming you,
then act like none of that pain got through.
He never says, “Please don’t go,”
he just gets quiet and lets it show.
He never says, “I need you near,”
he cracks a joke and disappears.
He gives his love like a loaded gun,
all or nothing, never half for anyone.
And if he looks like he doesn’t care,
look again—he’s fighting hell just to keep you there.
He’s loyal past logic, stubborn through pain,
stands in the fire, then walks through again.
Remembers the details you probably forget,
every promise, silence and unpaid debt.
He turns grief into anger, sadness to wit,
makes darkness funny so he can live with it.
Rough in the mouth, but soft at the core,
the kind who takes damage protecting the door.
He’s seen too much to believe in fate,
but secretly wonders if it’s not too late.
Still wants something real that won’t fucking fold,
someone who sees the boy under the cold.
He doesn’t need worship, pity or praise,
doesn’t need fixing or changing his ways.
He needs one person who won’t run scared
when the mask falls off and the truth stands bare.
He’s not angry all the time.
Sometimes anger is easier to name.
Rage sounds stronger
than loneliness, panic and pain.
Sometimes “fuck it” means,
“I tried my best.”
Sometimes “I’m fine” means,
“My heart’s a mess.”
Sometimes he pushes just to see
if you’ll fight your way back.
Sometimes he leaves first
because being left feels like an attack.
He’s got love in him, dangerous amounts,
but measures his worth by the people who bounce.
Every goodbye gets carved in stone,
another reason to handle shit alone.
Still, he gets up.
Still shows heart.
Still makes beauty from broken parts.
Still paints gold over rust and decay,
still finds something funny on the worst fucking day.
He’s intense, too honest, too hungry for trust,
the kind who gives everything, even when crushed.
He’d hand you the world without asking it back,
then apologise for the weight of the pack.
So when he says nothing, listen twice.
When he gets distant, don’t call it ice.
There’s a war in his chest he never explains,
and your voice might be the only peace in his brain.
He never says, “Please don’t go,”
but every silence tells you so.
He never says, “I’m scared to lose,”
he just acts like he’s got nothing to prove.
Yeah. Get. Fucked. You motherfucking fuckers.
Go get fucked and eat a bag of dicks you gay cunts.
Fuck you and yo mama and yo baby momma
Fuck you
