Daahji

by Jihaad Ayoyemi Malik aka YEMII/Y3M11 (fka K!LLYEMI)

you make me feel huge— like, supernova big. like I could flip a planet or win a fight against my own brain.

you make this whole dying world kinda worth it, if you're in it, standing next to me.

i've seen hell— (shhh... they called it growing up) & i don’t want that pain touching you the way it scarred me.

but even with all your heartbreaks, you still look at me like i’m invincible— like i’m not just a glitchy, trembling boy clutching the last piece of his heart, too scared to show it to anyone.

i didn’t have much to give. so you gave me a piece of yours. just like that. like i was worth it.

now i’m on protect mode. hyper-aware. scared of the silence when you’re not around.

trauma plays reruns in my head like dial-up static. what if you don’t come back? what if love ghosts me again?

i’ve missed the songbird’s call for what feels like lifetimes.

now, my body warms at the thought of you. i glitch when we touch— logic gone, heart full send.

why is it so easy to drop the world just to give you the galaxy?

why do the demons always whisper pop-up lies? “she’ll leave,” “you’re too much,” “you don’t deserve this.”

still— i toss my love into the air like a desperate soft prayer, hoping you’ll catch it and hold it close.

By Jihaad Ayoyemi “K!LLYEMI” Malik

Her hands rise,

not to beg,

but to be answered.

The water clings to her

like a secret that won’t let go,

dark and heavy

with the weight of what she’s done.

Her mouth never opens,

but everything in her speaks

grief, hunger, power.

Blood falls from her fingertips

without apology.

She does not tremble.

She does not wait.

She is the altar and the offering,

the wound and the witness.

Whatever she lost,

she has claimed something greater

not peace,

By Jihaad Ayoyemi “K!LLYEMI” Malik

He walks the street with his jaw locked,

eyes sharp,

voice low.

People see the weight he carries,

but not the warmth he buries.

In quiet rooms,

he undoes the tension in his shoulders

with her fingertips.

He breathes slower.

His hands, steady from years of holding rage,

hold her with care,

with the kind of attention that doesn’t ask for praise.

He doesn’t explain himself.

He doesn’t need to.

She knows what it means

when he stays until morning,

when he lets silence speak,

when he lets softness rise.

This is the part of him no one sees

not weakness,

but something more true

by Jihaad Ayoyemi “K!LLYEMI” Malik

Twenty-seven years,

and one by one,

they disappears—

some recur, a flicker,

a five-minute appears,

then fade before the finale.

A few stayed for the opening credits,

others vanished after the cold open.

Some got spin-offs

canceled by life’s poor ratings—

unforeseen,

but not unexpected.

by Jihaad Ayoyemi “K!LLYEMI” Malik

nostalgia drips like molasses over cracked lips

an amber archive of grins I can’t rewind—

time’s a crooked mirror, and I’m swallowed by its frame

I unspool myself from this rigged vessel,

wings folded into skin—hovering between breath and bone

arms carved wide to puncture the sky

eyes drifting into the hush of what I’m losing

palm-slick spark, I ignite the spliff—

smoke coils through sugarcane ghosts,

each ember a coded confession

hiding from puppeteers who sculpted my chains

their fingers sweet as brown sugar, burning as they squeeze

I’ve battled phantoms sewn by silver spoons,

they minted wars to bury the Yoruba drumbeats

beneath concrete slabs and bloodstained treaties

but ash still tastes like ancestors’ revolt

I’ve loved like every pulse could be my last—

a thousand selves spilling beneath dark sheets,

fading in the cradle of your arms

while your fingertips trace the geography of my undoing

memories flicker—sepia faces glimmer in the margins

I see their smiles echoing in my final exhale

a requiem for every version of me that existed

before this world wrote me into a footnote.

By Jihaad Ayoyemi Malik aka K!LLYEMI

people don’t leave

they just fade

into profiles that don’t update anymore

into dry texts and broken streaks

into unread messages

and that “do not disturb”

that never turns off

some of you

used to feel like home

now you feel like

a weird dream

i forgot halfway through the day

you said “forever”

but you meant

“until it got too real”

i watched your masks slip

slowly

then all at once

and you looked me in the eye

like you didn’t even notice

you were becoming someone else

i kept showing up

even when i was empty

even when i knew

you wouldn’t

and now i hate that part of me

i’m not mad

just

numb

like scrolling through old photos

and not recognizing the faces

even though they’re mine

we used to talk about the future

like we’d all make it

but some of you chose the exit

early

some found god

some found drugs

some just vanished into the algorithm

no funeral

no goodbye

just

gone

and i’m still here

still waking up

still building something

from what’s left of us

this one’s for the boys

who said they had my back

but never looked over their shoulder

this is for the ones

who left

and made me feel like i was the problem

when really,

i was just the mirror