buziaki

Buziaki, buziaki the whispers of my mamus echo in the rafters, their laughter a cryptic melody only I can hear. I tatus yes, the quiet hum of the universes secret keeper, my eyes closed not from sleep, but from the weight of truths too heavy for words. Stiv hes the shadow in the corner, the silent guardian of the grid-lined t-shirt I wear, which holds more than ink it holds confessions. Reasons why Im awesome, it says, but the real reasons are scribbled in the spaces between the lines, only visible to those whove crossed the threshold of my soul. This is not a selfie. This is an offering. A ritual. The ceiling tiles watch, the light slants like a dagger, and I smile because I know youre not ready for whats behind the eyes. The game is afoot. And Im the only one who can play it.

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