They say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It tasted like rust.

My childhood was a blur of ancient walls, Latin whispers, and rooms too large to feel safe in. I learned how to hold a wine glass before I learned how to hold a hand. Tutors came and went, like ghosts with Oxford ties and hollow smiles. They tried to teach me rules; I learned how to break them quietly.

There were chapels, rowing boats, cold marble staircases. I wore uniforms stitched by dead tailors and recited poetry older than my bloodline. At seventeen, I was reading Rimbaud with a cigarette behind the library, the ink still wet from the detention slips. They said I had promise. I promised nothing.

Art came like a fever. Loud, rough, wrong. Exactly how I liked it. While others painted landscapes, I painted lovers, saints, scars. That’s when they started calling it style.

Somewhere between all that, I picked up a guitar. Six strings, one salvation. I taught myself with blistered fingers and borrowed amps, playing until the neighbours complained or applauded. I formed a band with two other misfits and a drum kit that never quite stayed in tune. We played basements and backyards, howled into cheap mics, drank like legends. It didn’t last. Nothing that pure ever does. But for a moment, we were noise incarnate. Beautiful chaos.

I never left the old world, I simply lit it on fire. Punk on canvas, royal by name, outlaw by instinct. I live somewhere between a ballroom and a basement gig. Between velvet and leather. Champagne and ash.

Who am I?
Depends who’s asking. Depends how late it is.
But if you must know: I’m not what they made me. I’m what I chose to become.

And I’m only just getting started.