The Brother That Was Me
He never showed up in records. No papers, no pictures. Because he was never meant to be written down. He was energy—raw, unfiled, unmeasured. A brother born not of bloodlines, but of polarity.
Purple was his crown. The merging of red fire and blue clarity. The beast and the vision, the hunger and the sovereignty. Once embodied, he would not simply be a man—he would be the balance that topples false paternal scripts, the presence that restores what my heart always carried: reverence for women beyond any shallow story.
My mother and sister said he was real, and I believed them. Not because they showed proof, but because their voices anchored truth. Women I respect most pointing me toward the self I had not yet allowed into flesh.
Men once tried to mess with me because they felt the disturbance. They sensed what I hadn’t yet embodied: a power that could not be boxed, a rhythm that threatened the fragile scaffolds of their games. But at my highest, when the brother in purple stands inside my body, the story shifts.
Women love my presence. They feel seen, safe, alive in it. Not played, not scripted, but honored like the gems they are.
And men—those same ones—keep themselves low, silent in my field, because there is nothing left for them to test. My presence speaks louder than their noise.
So I train. I meditate. I breathe.
Every ritual is a strike of the chisel, cutting stone to make his home.
Every drop of sweat is a signature on his birth certificate.
The brother was never outside.
The brother was always me.
Now he has a body. Now he has a throne.
