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I am the tempest carved in bone,
a howl that never learned silence—
my Ego,
a ghost I birthed beneath the ribs,
naming it with the vanity of gods.
It walks before me in mirrors,
swelling like the moors at dusk,
where loneliness hums in the heather
and pride stands tall—
a ruined castle kissed by fog.
I have fed it stardust and sorrow,
bathed it in honeyed applause,
taught it the music of conquest—
and yet,
it grows wild and famished still,
clawing at every reflection for more.
Oh, Ego—
you liar,
you velvet-mouthed beast,
you dressed me in fire and told me I was sun.
You made me kneel before myself,
kiss my shadow like it was holy.
Sometimes,
I want to unlace my spine,
let the wind hollow me out
until nothing remains
but the quiet breath of trees,
the kind that ask for nothing.
But you—
you rise like heat from blood,
you name every silence a threat,
every love a war.
I have lost friends in your honor.
I have bled truth for your throne.
And still,
you hunger.
And still,
you tremble when the night grows honest.
Tell me—
who are we
when no one watches?
Who are we
when the applause dies?
Beneath your gilded tongue,
is there not
a boy,
a girl,
a flicker—
just begging
to be small enough
to touch the world
without breaking it?
Let me bury you gently,
beneath a mahogany of mercy,
where silence teaches me
what living truly means.
Then,
perhaps,
I will rise—
not as god,
nor ghost,
but a man
tender enough
to weep at his own reflection.
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Written by
@aduragbemi
Aduragbemi Erinkitola
August 2nd, 2025