Cruel Serenade Gutter Trash -

If you are reading this, you might know the tune. It’s the song the world plays for its outcasts, its broken romantics, its gutter trash. And yes, I wear that last term like a badge of honor. A serenade is supposed to be sweet. It’s a lover standing beneath a balcony, promising the moon. But a cruel serenade? That is the promise of the moon followed by the reality of a knife.

— For the gutter trash who still believe in the broken note. What does your cruel serenade sound like? Drop the first lyric that comes to mind in the comments.

There is a specific kind of beauty that only exists in the wreckage. It doesn’t live in a penthouse or a gallery opening. It doesn’t smell like Chanel or taste like champagne. It smells like stale rain on asphalt, tastes like cheap whiskey and regret, and sounds like a lullaby played through blown-out speakers in a flooded basement.