Holy Ho
The Chosen One

She is the Holy Ho — not because she’s sacred,
but because she’s seen the glitch and kept walking.
She’s a paradox wrapped in lace and receipts:
Homebody with rave dreams.
Social-phobic spotlight stealer.
Berlin chaser who don’t like clubs,
because the club’s already playing in her mind—
basslines of overthinking,
fog machines made of memory.She wants someone beside her,
but only if they shut the fuck up
and don’t touch her snacks.She’ll ghost your party to cry in bed
over a scent she made up.
She will romanticize you,
then block you before you blink.
She’s not lying.
She’s editing reality to survive it.She kills the Berlin dream at 3PM.
Resurrects it by 4.
Curses the city.
Then designs an outfit for the airport.She’s messy, she’s aching, she’s late on rent.
But she always shows up.
Not for the world—
for herself.
Even when the world gaslights her into forgetting
how holy that is.So yeah—
bless her, Father.
Not because she repented.
But because she kept coming back,
glitter-stained, story half-written,
still showing up
like she was never left behind.

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