camluvsk - Hello Poetry

I asked my younger self if he still wanted to grow up. He stared at my tired eyes and quietly changed the subject. “Do we still laugh so hard we can’t breathe?” he asked. I told him, “Only when we’re pretending not to break.” “Did we keep all our friends from school?” I said, “Most people become memories before they become strangers.” “Do mom and dad still call us their little boy?” I paused so long the room began to ache. “Do we still cry when things hurt?” he whispered. I said, “No… now we apologize for having feelings.” “Did we become everything we dreamed about?” His voice sounded like bicycles and summer evenings. I looked at him the way abandoned houses look at storms and said, “We became someone who survives the dream instead.”

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camluvsk

May 20

May 20, 2026 at 11:19 AM UTC

yorpoeticalgorithm

The Boy I Used to Be Couldnt Recognize Me

I asked my younger self if he still wanted to grow up. He stared at my tired eyes and quietly changed the subject. “Do we still laugh so hard we can’t breathe?” he asked. I told him, “Only when we’re pretending not to break.” “Did we keep all our friends from school?” I said, “Most people become memories before they become strangers.” “Do mom and dad still call us their little boy?” I paused so long the room began to ache. “Do we still cry when things hurt?” he whispered. I said, “No… now we apologize for having feelings.” “Did we become everything we dreamed about?” His voice sounded like bicycles and summer evenings. I looked at him the way abandoned houses look at storms and said, “We became someone who survives the dream instead.”

14

Sometimes I’m [deadname]. She is Dominican mango. Perfectly sweet. She wears dresses and skirts, she is a princess. She is perfectionistic, soft-spoken, and proper, just as her mother is. She thinks that academics are the only thing that she can prove her worth with, but doesn’t let anyone know. She feeds off of the validation of others. She strives to be at the top of her class, anything less would make her a failure. She never stops until she succeeds, never giving up. She is smart. She is successful. She is perfect. She is my cursed present. She is [deadname]. Sometimes I’m [dead-nickname]. She is slightly unripe guava. She is bitter-sweet, delivering a punch of flavor. She is like the innocent child who has yet to learn the dreads of living. She is playful and loves doing her doll’s hair, braiding and brushing it, just as her mother does for her. She makes bracelets and handwritten cards as presents, writing all the little poems that flow through her mind like the wind flowing through the trees. She loves the swings at the park, flying high. She is like a bird that has yet to leave the nest. She is brave. She is playful. She is creative. She was my childhood. She is [dead-nickname]. Sometimes I’m Lumin. They are starfruit. Bold, sweet and sour, tangy and **** They are bright, like the celestial wonder they were named after. They light up any room they walk into as their outspoken and unforgiving self. Their luster makes others stop and stare. They are like a warrior that would do anything to defend the people they love. A leader that leaves no soldier behind. They don’t let anyone tell them what to do. They are brave. They are confident. They are bright. They are my future. They are Lumin. They all struggle to coexist in this world. They never get along, fighting like siblings. But they jumble up and create the mess of a person that I am. I wish that I could live by the name that is me, but walls of steel stop me from fulfilling it. So, for now, I’m [deadname], [dead-nickname], and Lumin.

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camluvsk

May 7

May 7, 2026 at 12:29 PM UTC

Lumin_e

My name.s - 12/13/22

Sometimes I’m [deadname]. She is Dominican mango. Perfectly sweet. She wears dresses and skirts, she is a princess. She is perfectionistic, soft-spoken, and proper, just as her mother is. She thinks that academics are the only thing that she can prove her worth with, but doesn’t let anyone know. She feeds off of the validation of others. She strives to be at the top of her class, anything less would make her a failure. She never stops until she succeeds, never giving up. She is smart. She is successful. She is perfect. She is my cursed present. She is [deadname]. Sometimes I’m [dead-nickname]. She is slightly unripe guava. She is bitter-sweet, delivering a punch of flavor. She is like the innocent child who has yet to learn the dreads of living. She is playful and loves doing her doll’s hair, braiding and brushing it, just as her mother does for her. She makes bracelets and handwritten cards as presents, writing all the little poems that flow through her mind like the wind flowing through the trees. She loves the swings at the park, flying high. She is like a bird that has yet to leave the nest. She is brave. She is playful. She is creative. She was my childhood. She is [dead-nickname]. Sometimes I’m Lumin. They are starfruit. Bold, sweet and sour, tangy and **** They are bright, like the celestial wonder they were named after. They light up any room they walk into as their outspoken and unforgiving self. Their luster makes others stop and stare. They are like a warrior that would do anything to defend the people they love. A leader that leaves no soldier behind. They don’t let anyone tell them what to do. They are brave. They are confident. They are bright. They are my future. They are Lumin. They all struggle to coexist in this world. They never get along, fighting like siblings. But they jumble up and create the mess of a person that I am. I wish that I could live by the name that is me, but walls of steel stop me from fulfilling it. So, for now, I’m [deadname], [dead-nickname], and Lumin.

4

you always told me to stop wearing so much makeup so i did. you always told me to cover up so i did. you always told me to eat more so i did. you always told me ¨ please you love me right?¨ so i let you. you always made me believe it was love so i trusted you. you always had traced my cuts and told me to stop harming myself so i did. march 15th 2025 now you're arguing with me wondering why i broke up with you when you ´ ve been the blade that forced itself against my skin.

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May 6

May 6, 2026 at 1:42 PM UTC

camluvsk

so i did.

you always told me to stop wearing so much makeup so i did. you always told me to cover up so i did. you always told me to eat more so i did. you always told me ¨ please you love me right?¨ so i let you. you always made me believe it was love so i trusted you. you always had traced my cuts and told me to stop harming myself so i did. march 15th 2025 now you're arguing with me wondering why i broke up with you when you ´ ve been the blade that forced itself against my skin.

16

I had a dream that I could fly. Every time I tried to fly, strings from my wrists would hold me down slowly cutting the strings off from my wrists, leaving a trail of blood behind. As they fell to the ground below Finally after cutting the last string, tears in my eyes, I could fly Before I took off I thought about all those strings that held me back Being there to comfort me when no one could, how they had grown on me I've made up my mind Tonight i flew for the first time Flying until my wings gave out and i fell towards the ground below Waking up in a sweat i realized i was back in the hospital Legs broken, head pounding, bruises everywhere I look down at my carefully bandaged wrists Memories of cutting those strings off from my wrists flooding back.

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May 5

May 5, 2026 at 1:46 PM UTC

camluvsk

flyings hard

I had a dream that I could fly. Every time I tried to fly, strings from my wrists would hold me down slowly cutting the strings off from my wrists, leaving a trail of blood behind. As they fell to the ground below Finally after cutting the last string, tears in my eyes, I could fly Before I took off I thought about all those strings that held me back Being there to comfort me when no one could, how they had grown on me I've made up my mind Tonight i flew for the first time Flying until my wings gave out and i fell towards the ground below Waking up in a sweat i realized i was back in the hospital Legs broken, head pounding, bruises everywhere I look down at my carefully bandaged wrists Memories of cutting those strings off from my wrists flooding back.

14

I am 7 years old. I walk into a room Confident but cautious. I scan the room admiring my new peers. already chatting and connecting. My eyes lock on a girl, Mia. Finally My brain, small and misunderstood, Was understood. As i talk, my hushed voice Grows brighter. we laugh till the sun dies. I am 7 years old. I was 7 years old. I walk into my new school Confident but cautious. I scan the room looking at my peers. A friend i've known for 8+ years highlights from the crowd, Mia. My small and misunderstood brain Finally was understood. I was 7 years old.

0

Apr 10

Apr 10, 2026 at 1:46 PM UTC

camluvsk

7-12

I am 7 years old. I walk into a room Confident but cautious. I scan the room admiring my new peers. already chatting and connecting. My eyes lock on a girl, Mia. Finally My brain, small and misunderstood, Was understood. As i talk, my hushed voice Grows brighter. we laugh till the sun dies. I am 7 years old. I was 7 years old. I walk into my new school Confident but cautious. I scan the room looking at my peers. A friend i've known for 8+ years highlights from the crowd, Mia. My small and misunderstood brain Finally was understood. I was 7 years old.

21

burn the rulebook. Burn the book that says Black people can’t swim, as if water ever checked skin before deciding who could float. Burn the page that said Asians are only math and silence, as if brilliance has one face and emotion has none. Burn the paragraph that turned Hispanic into “illegal,” as if borders were more sacred than bloodlines. Burn the footnote that reduced Europeans to conquest, as if history is only its worst moments and never its art, its music, its revolutions. Burn the chapter that told white boys they cannot cry, that strength is measured in suppression. Burn the margins where stereotypes live— the jokes, the backhanded compliments, the “you’re not like the others.” Burn the myth that any race is a monolith. Burn the lie that culture is costume. Burn the quiet expectation that some must be loud, some must be submissive, some must be dangerous, some must be dominant. Burn the idea that identity is a box instead of a spectrum. Because rulebooks like that don’t protect anyone. They shrink us. They tell Black kids the water isn’t theirs. Tell Asian kids their feelings don’t matter. Tell Hispanic kids their roots are suspect. Tell white kids empathy is weakness. Tell everyone to perform. And then we wonder why we grow up misunderstanding each other. Burn the rulebook. Not to erase history— but to stop confusing stereotype with truth. And when the ashes settle, leave only this: No race owes you a performance. No culture exists for your comfort. And no child should inherit a limitation they never chose.

0

camluvsk

Apr 10

Apr 10, 2026 at 1:34 PM UTC

Dumbwr1ter

burn the rulebook

burn the rulebook. Burn the book that says Black people can’t swim, as if water ever checked skin before deciding who could float. Burn the page that said Asians are only math and silence, as if brilliance has one face and emotion has none. Burn the paragraph that turned Hispanic into “illegal,” as if borders were more sacred than bloodlines. Burn the footnote that reduced Europeans to conquest, as if history is only its worst moments and never its art, its music, its revolutions. Burn the chapter that told white boys they cannot cry, that strength is measured in suppression. Burn the margins where stereotypes live— the jokes, the backhanded compliments, the “you’re not like the others.” Burn the myth that any race is a monolith. Burn the lie that culture is costume. Burn the quiet expectation that some must be loud, some must be submissive, some must be dangerous, some must be dominant. Burn the idea that identity is a box instead of a spectrum. Because rulebooks like that don’t protect anyone. They shrink us. They tell Black kids the water isn’t theirs. Tell Asian kids their feelings don’t matter. Tell Hispanic kids their roots are suspect. Tell white kids empathy is weakness. Tell everyone to perform. And then we wonder why we grow up misunderstanding each other. Burn the rulebook. Not to erase history— but to stop confusing stereotype with truth. And when the ashes settle, leave only this: No race owes you a performance. No culture exists for your comfort. And no child should inherit a limitation they never chose.

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