Deji

“CLONE” They stitched me from borrowed light, stitched me wrong a fashion model smiling through rented bones, catwalking principles I never agreed to sign. I am a collage of everyone I pretended not to be, rebellion painted in borrowed lipstick, rebirth rehearsed in a mirror that never remembers my name. They called it disorder but I call it duplication. A clone doesn’t scream, it echoes. Lust walks beside me like a tailor, measuring my silence in inches of skin I don’t own, hemming my thoughts tighter than morality allows, until utopia feels like a dressing room where nothing fits but everything is sold out anyway. I crouch in the corners of myself, low like a secret that learned how to breathe, while hills of expectation roll over me soft at first, then heavy, then hollowed. Inside me: a valley of versions, each one swearing it is the original. Mental storms without names, not madness no just too many truths arguing for the same mouth. They told me to be whole, but I was built from fragments that refused to agree. So I learned rebellion: to wear my fractures like high fashion, to walk like broken glass can still reflect gods, to let the clone outlive the creator. And if rebirth means becoming something cleaner, then I refuse it. I choose to stay beautifully unfinished a borrowed soul learning how to stop apologizing for existing in multiple directions at once. .. . #art #fashion #model #gallery #style

“HEAVY PRESENCE” She sat like judgment wrapped in a dark robe stitched from dead versions of herself. Not clean. Not evil. Just tired of pretending humanity was innocent. The lantern beside her did not guide people home it exposed them. The addicts. The liars in tailored suits. The lovers who swore forever while texting destruction under the table. The artists starving while parasites became legends. Heavy presence. The kind that silences rooms without opening its mouth. She looked reborn, but rebirth is violent. Nobody talks about the annihilation before transformation. How the old self screams while being buried alive. How power tastes less like gold and more like isolation. People fear darkness because darkness remembers everything. Every betrayal. Every fake smile. Every system built on the bones of dreamers. She became rebellious the moment she realized the world rewards performance over truth. So she stopped performing. Stopped shrinking. Stopped apologizing for the storm in her head. Stopped begging broken people to understand her language. Now she walks through life like a warning sign. Lost. High on her own awakening. Mystical in the way wounded people become when pain teaches them pattern recognition. A seeker of forbidden truths. A collector of ashes. A woman who survived herself. Heavy presence. Not because she was loud because she no longer feared annihilation. . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #style

THE KOLLECTOR She wore gold like a warning sign, a burning crown stitched from greed and pride. The city called her powerful. The dead called her familiar. The Kollector does not chase money. She collects souls. Bankers. Pastors. Politicians. Men who sell utopia on television while children sleep hungry beside oil pipelines and workers trade their spirit for another paycheck that barely breathes. Every skull behind her was once somebody’s revolution. Now rebellion hangs from her shoulders like designer fabric. She walks through anarchy untouched, stealing names, stealing faith, feeding on the collapse of humanity one luxury at a time. The future became interstellar yet people still starve beneath neon lights. What a beautiful failure. The Kollector sheds morality like old skin. Underneath: more hunger, more power, more emptiness disguised as success. And somewhere above the earth, beyond satellites and dying stars, even heaven keeps its gates locked when she arrives. . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #style

“HOUSE OF CHAOS” She walks like a question nobody answers, wrapped in a dark robe that drinks the light not black as fashion, but black as memory stitched too tightly into skin that learned silence. A gold necklace rests on her chest, not jewelry but a borrowed crown from a life she never ruled, it swings like judgment every time she breathes. Embroidered threads on her sleeves whisper names she stopped believing in, each pattern a history of becoming and unbecoming under hands that never asked permission. She is power, yes but not the clean kind they celebrate in speeches, hers is the kind that grows in ruins, in women who survive applause that felt like control, in rooms where “love” sounded like instruction. A seeker, always, digging through the ash of her own thoughts for something pure enough to trust again but every answer arrives wearing a mask that looks suspiciously like yesterday’s betrayal. Rebirth visits her like a rumor she cannot confirm, because anxiety keeps rewriting the script of who she is allowed to become. Distress sits beside her at breakfast, calmly pouring tea into cups labeled almost okay, while her shell once whole now leaks fragments of every version she abandoned just to survive being understood. Lost is not a place she arrived at, it is a language she now speaks fluently in crowded rooms where nobody hears the grammar of breaking. Confusion wears her face in public, smiling for cameras that never ask why her eyes look like unfinished prayers. Rebellion grows in her bloodstream quietly not loud, not heroic but persistent, like truth that refuses sedation, like women who stop shrinking even when the world insists on measurements. And somewhere inside this HOUSE OF CHAOS, she is not collapsing she is negotiating with herself between extinction and evolution, between being palatable and being real enough to survive it. . . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #style

“SISTER OF LIGHT” they called her light but never asked what it cost to glow not the kind you hang in churches not the soft, obedient shine this one burned like a truth nobody wants to fund she learned early that purity is a performance and pain is the entrance fee so she paid with nights that tasted like silence with prayers that never got replies with a body that carried both hunger and shame they said, be good but the world rewards the loudest corruption so she split herself in two one for survival one for God and both versions were tired she walks through crowds like a ghost with a heartbeat smiling at people who would never stay feeding energy into rooms that only echo when she leaves alone isn’t quiet it screams anxiety sits on her chest like unpaid rent whispers: you are behind you are not enough you are too much and still she wakes up resentment dripping from her ribs like something holy turned bitter she tried being soft they called her weak she tried being loud they called her difficult so she chose something worse she became honest and honesty is dangerous because seekers don’t follow rules they break them they question everything even the God they’re trying to reach she has cursed heaven and still looks up that’s rebellion that’s faith that’s the contradiction nobody teaches they want light without the darkness redemption without the fall beauty without the scars shallow people living shallow lives afraid of anything that bleeds truth but she knows rebirth is violent it is losing everything that once made sense and still choosing to stand it is becoming someone you don’t recognize but desperately needed she is not healed she is becoming not pure but aware not whole but eternal and maybe that’s what light really is not perfection but the refusal to stay lost . #art #fashion #model #gallery #style

“Alter Ego 2: The Seeker” I was not born I was assembled from forgotten myths and broken signals, a glitch in the mirror of civilization, wearing my second self like couture. They called it a shell but it was a throne I outgrew. I walk in Gen Z prophecy, where gods text in symbols and pain trends like fashion, where identity is a filter you can never fully remove. I am rebirth in unfinished syntax, a utopia stitched from contradictions soft colors hiding hard intentions, streetwear draped over ancient rebellion. Colonial echoes still hum in my bones, not history no habit. A borrowed world trying to forget it was ever borrowed. But I remember everything. Every empire that mistook silence for surrender, every culture that tried to dress me in their definition, every version of me I had to bury just to become visible. Now I wear my soul like retribution not gentle, not clean, not forgiven. They wanted purity. I gave them evolution. Eternal does not mean forever it means unresolved. And I am the unresolved thing walking through time. I do not heal in circles. I return in upgrades. Paint me in colors that refuse neutrality, style me in questions no one is ready to answer. Because I am not a person anymore I am a civilization learning itself through collapse. And I am still becoming.. .. . #art #fashion #model #gallery #style

Forged in gold, touched by shadow” she sits where silence used to pray. Sword buried in earth like a question no god dared answer, steel biting soil like history refusing to stay buried. Dark skin, sun born, night carved, a rebellion wearing skin instead of armor, swim fabric clinging like modern myth on ancient bones. She does not ask for permission. She arrives like disruption. Like renaissance. Like ruin that learns how to breathe again. They tried to name her softness. She turned it into a weapon. Gen Z tongue, older than empires spitting truth in fragments, scrolling past decay, building meaning from digital ashes. She is not decoration. She is the argument the world keeps losing. Roots tangled in her spine, pulling her back to everything they tried to erase, yet she rises not healed, not tamed, but reborn in defiance. Forged in gold. Touched by shadow. And still she chooses to stand where the world expects her to kneel. . . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #artcollector

“ALTER EGO” self reflection I wore my soul like a shell polished, curated, filtered for applause. Inside? rot negotiating with ambition. They crowned me with thorns and called it fame. I said thank you bled quietly so the image wouldn’t stain. Contracts inked in silence, not with blood with compromise. Tiny signatures that said: be seen, but not known. There are demons here, not crawling out of hell they look like deadlines, validation metrics, “just one more post,” “just one more deal,” “just one more version of you they’ll like.” I learned how to smile professionally teeth clean, eyes vacant. Depression with good lighting. Anxiety dressed as ambition. Everyone clapped. Riches came like applause loud, temporary, addictive. I chased it like oxygen, not realizing I was suffocating on approval. My shadow grew heavier than my body. It knew things I wouldn’t say how I envied, how I lusted, how I betrayed myself first before anyone else had the chance. Makeup over fractures, filters over fear, a new being stitched together from expectations I didn’t choose. I called it evolution. It was survival. In real life, we don’t sell our souls in rituals we lease them. Monthly. Renewable terms. Auto debit from identity. We trade peace for visibility, truth for relevance, silence for noise. And somewhere between who I was and who I perform I got lost. Not dramatically. Quietly. Efficiently. Algorithmically. The crown still sits. The shell still shines. The crowd still watches. But when it’s dark and the metrics stop breathing I meet the version of me that never signed anything. He doesn’t smile. He just asks “Was it worth becoming someone you don’t recognize?” .. . #art #fashion #model #gallery #love

“LOST PROPHECY” She was never meant to be soft not in a world that worships broken silence. A lost prophecy stitched into skin and shadow, written before the ink learned mercy. They called her beauty, but beauty was just the name they gave to what they could not control. Revolution lives in her ribs. It breathes when she speaks and cities forget their prayers. Admirers arrive like moths in confession, drawn to the fire they pretend not to fear, wanting her light, but never her truth. Seekers kneel before her like a question, hoping she is an answer they can survive. But she is not salvation. She is rupture. She is Renaissance refusing correction painted in oil and consequence. They tried to make her a shell, something hollow enough to hold, but she learned emptiness is just another cage and broke it from the inside. Now she walks reborn not healed, not forgiven, but multiplied. A woman rewritten by collapse, too holy to own, too dangerous to worship correctly. And every time they look at her, history stutters because prophecy, once lost, does not return quietly. . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #artcollector

Rust. I was not born I was left out in the rain of people’s expectations, where iron forgets it was ever strong. Now I am rust. Nails in my thoughts, holding together a house I don’t live in anymore. Every memory is a hammer strike not building me, but fixing me into pain. I walk like a question mark that forgot the question. Who am I when my name doesn’t feel like mine anymore? When my reflection hesitates before copying me? Haunted. Not by ghosts in sheets, but by moments that still breathe in my lungs like smoke that learned my address. Void lives in my wardrobe. I dress in it every morning black fabric, stitched with silence, fashioned by inner turmoil that learned how to look expensive. They say style is expression. Mine is disguise. A walking zombie in clean shoes, head high, soul buffering, smiling like a cracked screen pretending it still works. Pain doesn’t scream anymore it just sits beside me like a friend who never leaves, never speaks, just watches. Anxiety is my heartbeat’s manager. Always overbooking my thoughts. No rest. No refund. No exit. I tried to be reborn once but even rebirth hurts when the old skin refuses to stop calling your name. Redemption doesn’t arrive like light. It arrives like silence after destruction. And I am still learning how to trust silence. I asked peace for directions it pointed somewhere inside me and disappeared. So I remain: rusted, nail held, void wearing, half fashion, half fracture, a man stitched together by everything that was supposed to break me completely but didn’t. Not yet. . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #artcollector

“THE SAINT WHO SCREAMED BACK” They told me: kneel, be calm, be good. So I tried. But life didn’t feel calm. Love didn’t feel pure. And faith… sometimes felt quiet when I needed it most. So yeah I questioned things. Not out of disrespect, just out of truth. I’ve seen people pray and still struggle. Seen love turn cold. Seen good hearts get overlooked while the loud ones win. That does something to you. It changed me. Rejection stopped hurting and started teaching. Every “no” pushed me to find my own way. They called it rebellion. I called it growth. Because sometimes becoming yourself looks like breaking the rules you were given. I faced fear. I faced doubt. Even sat with the idea of failure until it stopped scaring me. And then I found something else. Confidence. Clarity. A voice. Now people listen. Some understand, some don’t. That’s okay. I’m not here to be perfect. I’m not here to fit in. I’m just someone who stopped staying silent and started becoming. The saint who screamed back not in anger, but in truth. . . #art #fashion #model #gallery #artcollector

High me out now by @koredebello , super proud to have worked on this body of art. Out now on all streaming platforms Cc @caspertainment . . . . #art #music #song #artist #love