used to call you Chicharito,
My little pea, soft and sweet though—
You wore my name like a crown in the sun,
And I held you like the only one.

We laughed in codes, moved like flame and shadow,
Thought I found peace in your chaos mellow.
But smiles don’t last when the mask don’t fit—
Now I call you something that actually hits.

Hookamani—
The name you earned when truth got loud,
When lies dressed in love still wore a shroud.
You preached loyalty while planting doubt,
Spoke of forever with exits mapped out.

From a nickname built in warmth and trust,
To a title that crumbles all that was us.
You changed the meaning, not me, not fate—
You wrote Hookamani in your own trait.

I loved Chicharito—she made me believe.
Hookamani? She taught me to leave.