linus

poetry i want to perform

[coldbrewreaperr]

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[coldbrewreaperr]

Like Him

a poem by Linus

I feel empty—

not the poetic kind,

not the “room for growth” kind.

I mean hollow like something vital

was ripped out

and my body never learned

how to seal the wound.

I wake up already missing him.

Like my heart clocks in early

just to suffer overtime.

Every guy I meet becomes a question mark

wearing his outline.

I search their voices for echoes,

their hands for muscle memory,

their smiles for the exact angle

that once made my whole future

feel safe.

And I hate myself for it.

Because it isn’t fair—

they didn’t ask to audition

for the role of someone

who ruined me by leaving.

But don’t tell me

“you’ll find someone better.”

Better isn’t the point.

You don’t replace a person

like upgrading a phone.

I don’t want someone like him.

I don’t want similar tastes

or shared trauma

or the same dumb jokes.

I want him,

with his specific flaws,

his exact timing,

the way he occupied my chest

like he planned to stay.

I want the version of me

who existed

when he loved me.

Do you understand how cruel that is?

To lose someone

and lose yourself

in the same breath?

He doesn’t want me.

And somehow the world keeps spinning

like that isn’t a catastrophic event.

Like my chest didn’t cave in

the moment I realized

love isn’t enough

if it’s only coming from one side.

I try to cope.

I really do.

I distract myself,

romanticize healing,

pretend I’m “doing the work.”

But at night

it all collapses.

The silence gets loud,

and my heart starts bargaining

with the past like it’s a god.

What if I loved him differently?

What if I was softer, quieter,

less me?

What if I could unlearn

everything that made me

easy to leave?

I am so fucking lonely.

Not the kind that wants company—

the kind that wants one person

and rejects every other offering

like an insult.

People say

“you’ll move on”

like it’s an act of bravery

and not an act of amputation.

Like I’m supposed to be proud

of surviving something

that killed the version of me

who believed

love could stay.

I don’t know how to move forward

when my heart is still facing backward,

arms out,

waiting for someone

who already chose not to return.

So if I sound dramatic,

if I sound stuck,

if I sound like I’m drowning

in a feeling everyone else

seems to outgrow—

understand this:

I loved him honestly.

I loved him fully.

And now I am standing

in the aftermath of that truth,

trying to learn how to breathe

in a world

that keeps asking me

to let go

of the one thing

that ever felt like home.

[coldbrewreaperr]

Loving Him

a gay little poem by Linus

He was good for me.

That’s the problem.

He was good in the quiet ways—

the way my name sounded safer in his mouth,

the way my shoulders forgot how to stay tense

when he walked into the room.

He was good like muscle memory.

Like home without an address.

I think about him every day

in ways that don’t announce themselves.

In the space beside me on the bed.

In grocery store aisles.

In songs I didn’t know were about him

until my chest collapsed halfway through the chorus.

There are songs I cannot listen to anymore

because they don’t just remind me of him—

they return me.

Suddenly I am crying in a parked car,

or the shower,

or the middle of a perfectly fine afternoon

because love does not wait for privacy.

He loved me gently.

And that’s what makes this unbearable.

If he had been cruel,

I could’ve turned him into a lesson,

a warning label,

something sharp I learned to avoid.

But he was kind.

He was patient.

He was the kind of love that didn’t bruise me,

just left.

Do you know how hard it is

to grieve someone who didn’t hurt you?

To explain that the pain comes not from damage

but from loss?

I miss the way he knew me

before I finished the sentence.

The way he noticed the small things

and made me feel seen without being exposed.

I miss being loved without performing.

I miss being chosen

without having to ask.

And yes, I know time is supposed to help.

People say, you’ll move on,

like love is a place you visit

instead of a language you learn fluently.

But some loves don’t fade—

they go quiet.

They sit in your chest

and hum softly through your days,

waiting for a song,

a smell,

a thought too honest to stop.

I don’t want to erase him.

I don’t want to make him smaller

just so this hurts less.

I just want to wake up one day

and think of him

without my throat closing,

without tears feeling like the only translation

for how deeply he mattered.

Because he was good for me.

So good.

And loving him

changed me in ways

I will be carrying

for a long, long time.

[coldbrewreaperr]

sorry for the spam posting. i wrote a lot this past week and forgot to post. ✌🏻

[coldbrewreaperr]

Mislabelled

a poem by Linus

I learned my name

before I learned my body.

It was handed to me

like a receipt—

already printed,

already decided,

no returns accepted.

They told me who I was

while I was still soft enough

to believe them.

Mirrors became negotiations.

Not enemies—

worse—

misinformed narrators.

They insist on telling a story

I don’t remember auditioning for.

Every morning I wake up

and take inventory:

what fits,

what doesn’t,

what I can hide,

what will betray me

by existing too loudly.

Gender dysphoria is subtle sometimes.

It’s not always pain—

sometimes it’s static.

A low hum of wrongness

that follows me into rooms

and sits beside me in chairs.

Other days it’s violent.

It grabs my reflection by the throat

and says,

“Explain yourself.”

I practice introductions in my head

like they’re spells.

Name.

Pronouns.

Tone.

Posture.

I rehearse existing

before I step outside.

Bathrooms feel like interrogations.

Clothing stores feel like dares.

Every form with a checkbox

asks me to choose between

being accurate

and being safe.

They say,

“You look fine.”

As if fine means true.

As if comfort can be measured

from the outside.

I want to explain that dysphoria

is not hatred of my body—

it’s grief.

Grief for alignment.

Grief for ease.

Grief for the version of me

that gets to move through the world

without translating myself

at every turn.

Some days my body feels like a costume

I can’t take off

even when I sleep.

Some days I catch glimpses—

in shadows,

in reflections that don’t have time

to lie yet—

and for half a second

I recognize myself.

Those seconds keep me alive.

Language both saves me

and wounds me.

Pronouns can feel like oxygen

or like hands around my throat.

You never forget the first time

someone sees you correctly.

Your chest loosens.

Your spine remembers how to stand.

You never forget the times they don’t.

Each one stacks.

Each one teaches your shoulders

to brace.

They ask,

“Why does it matter so much?”

Because being misgendered

isn’t just a word—

it’s a reminder

that the world sees a story

written over mine.

Because being seen

is not a luxury.

It’s a survival instinct.

I am tired of explaining

that this isn’t a phase,

isn’t confusion,

isn’t me trying to be difficult.

I am not rebelling against my body—

I am trying to come home to it.

Transition—

social, medical, internal—

is not becoming someone else.

It’s excavation.

Digging through layers of expectation

to find the shape

that was always there.

And yes, I am afraid.

Of permanence.

Of regret.

Of being wrong.

But I am more afraid

of living my entire life

as a compromise.

I deserve a body

that feels like mine.

A name that doesn’t flinch

when spoken aloud.

A future where I don’t have to

mentally edit myself

to be acceptable.

I am not asking to be understood perfectly.

I am asking to be believed.

I am learning how to take up space

without apologizing.

How to correct people

without shrinking.

How to look at my reflection

and say,

“We’re getting closer.”

Gender euphoria exists.

It’s quiet,

but it’s holy.

It’s the first time your voice surprises you

in a good way.

The first outfit that doesn’t feel like armor.

The first time someone says your name

and your body doesn’t tense.

Those moments are proof.

I am not confused.

I am becoming.

And one day—

maybe not soon,

maybe not easily—

the mirror will stop arguing.

It will simply say,

“Yes.

That’s you.”

[coldbrewreaperr]

Life of the Disassociated

a poem by Linus

My life is happening

somewhere slightly to the left of me.

I can hear it—

laughter bleeding through walls,

time clicking forward,

people becoming older versions of themselves—

but I’m stuck behind glass,

palms flat,

watching my reflection age

while I wait for the door

to remember how to open.

Dissociation doesn’t crash in.

It doesn’t scream.

It dims.

Like someone slowly lowering the volume

on my own existence

until I’m living on subtitles

and missed context.

I show up to days

the way a ghost shows up to houses—

technically present,

emotionally unfinished.

Moments pass me

like cars on a highway

while I’m pulled over,

hazards on,

pretending I meant to stop here.

I keep thinking

I’ll re-enter my life soon.

After this week.

After this fog.

After I feel more real.

But weeks stack.

Years learn how to stand on each other’s shoulders.

And suddenly I’m grieving time

I technically survived.

Birthdays come and go

like notifications I swipe away.

Photos prove I was there—

smiling, arm around someone I love—

but I don’t remember being inside my body.

I remember watching it happen

from a few feet behind my eyes.

Everyone else is collecting memories.

I’m collecting evidence.

I’m supposed to be building a future,

but how do you plan a life

when you don’t fully occupy the present?

How do you dream

when your mind keeps floating

just high enough

to miss the landing?

Sometimes I feel like I’ve wasted my life—

not in the dramatic way,

not with bad choices or reckless decisions—

but quietly.

Accidentally.

By not being here

while it unfolded.

People say,

“Time flies.”

No—

time runs

when you’re not looking.

It takes advantage of your distance.

It sprints while you’re dissociated,

then turns around and asks,

“Did you enjoy it?”

I want to scream,

“I wasn’t even there!”

I missed conversations

that could’ve changed me.

I missed mornings

that deserved to be remembered.

I missed versions of myself

that existed only briefly

before dissolving into blur.

And the hardest part?

No one notices my absence

because my body stayed.

I nodded.

I laughed.

I functioned well enough

to fool everyone—

including myself.

But inside,

I was watching my life

like a movie I meant to pay attention to

and somehow didn’t.

Sometimes I mourn

the person I could’ve been

if I had been more present.

I wonder how many choices

were made on autopilot.

How many paths I drifted into

because I wasn’t fully awake

to choose otherwise.

There is so much guilt

in surviving something invisible.

So much shame

in saying,

“I was gone,”

when you never left the room.

But I’m learning this—

Dissociation is not laziness.

It’s not indifference.

It’s a nervous system

that learned distance

was safer than depth.

I didn’t abandon my life.

I adapted to survive it.

And maybe now—

now that I can name it,

feel the ache of time passing,

notice the grief instead of numbing it—

maybe this is me

stepping back toward myself.

Slowly.

Unevenly.

With long pauses

and missed steps.

I can’t get the lost years back.

I can’t rewind to the moments

I watched instead of lived.

But I can be here

for this one.

This breath.

This second

that hasn’t slipped away yet.

My life is still happening.

And even if I arrive late,

even if I’m shaking,

even if I don’t feel fully real—

I am choosing

to step out from behind the glass.

Not perfectly.

Not all at once.

Just enough

to say—

I’m here now.

[coldbrewreaperr]

The Kids We Used To Be

a poem by Linus

tw: s/h

When I was twelve,

I learned that silence could bruise.

That sometimes, pain doesn’t scream—

it whispers:

“You deserve this.”

I was too young

to know what coping meant,

too old

to ask for help without feeling guilty.

So I wore my pain

where no one could see it—

under sleeves,

behind excuses,

beneath the kind of smile

you learn from sitcoms and survival.

I remember the first time I thought,

“Maybe the hurt on the outside

will make the inside quieter.”

And for a moment,

it did.

But silence is temporary

when the war is internal.

I was a kid

playing doctor on my own wounds,

writing apologies to my body

in red ink.

I didn’t know

you could love yourself without earning it.

Didn’t know

that pain could pass

without being punished first.

And nobody saw me.

Because nobody looks too closely

at the kid who always says “I’m fine.”

We learn early

that being okay is easier to explain

than being alive.

But—

here’s the thing about time.

It doesn’t fix you,

but it waits for you to learn.

And one day,

somewhere between growing up

and giving up,

I realized—

I didn’t want to keep living like a ghost

in my own story.

So I started talking.

Started telling.

Started letting the sun

touch my skin again.

Started calling my scars

by their true name: evidence.

Because they aren’t trophies.

They aren’t shame.

They’re proof—

that I was hurting,

and then healing,

and now—

here.

Now,

I laugh too loud.

I take up space.

I dye my hair bright colors

and wear tank tops in summer.

My arms see daylight again.

My heart does too.

I am clean—not perfect,

just honest.

I am happy—not constant,

just present.

I am growing—

like grass through concrete,

like light through curtains,

like me.

And sometimes,

I look at old photos

of that kid with tired eyes,

and I want to tell them:

“Hey—

you’re gonna make it.

There’s a version of you

who hums in the shower,

who sleeps through the night,

who writes poems instead of apologies.”

I want to tell them—

“You don’t have to earn being loved.

You don’t have to bleed to feel real.”

Because the truth is,

I used to harm myself

because I thought that was the only way to feel.

Now,

I feel everything.

And it’s loud,

and it’s messy,

and it’s mine.

So here’s to the kids we used to be—

the ones who learned survival before self-worth,

who made it through nights

they never thought would end.

We’re here now.

Clean.

Whole-ish.

Happy.

And when I trace the lines on my arms,

they don’t say “pain” anymore—

they say,

“proof.”

They say,

“I stayed.”

They say,

“I am still here.”

And that—

that is enough.

[coldbrewreaperr]

once, then never again

a poem by Linus

Love had always been something for me

that I’d only seen in movies,

read about in books —

something described as warm,

as something that swallowed you whole,

body and soul.

I never understood it.

I was never “boy-crazy,”

not even when I was still “a girl.”

Then I became a man,

and nothing about that changed.

No blushing.

No racing heart.

No giggling over messages on my phone.

At eighteen,

I had never been in love.

In middle school,

I picked boys

I was supposed to be “in love” with.

I saw everyone else falling in love

and thought:

“This must be something you’re meant to do.

So I’ll do it too.”

But it was never real.

Never truly.

Just a performance

to seem normal.

And then …

We met at a house party.

We talked all night.

He sat down next to me

when the alcohol had clouded my brain.

I rubbed his back

when he threw up two hours later.

And we became friends.

Slowly —

very, very slowly —

I felt warmth in my chest.

I was never quick to fall in love.

I wasn’t in love at all.

I was floating.

In orbit.

I watched

as others plunged headfirst into chaos,

while I stood on the shore

and wondered:

Is it really that deep?

But he —

with him, something was different.

Suddenly his name tasted different.

My heart learned a rhythm

it had never practiced before.

Suddenly,

the thought of losing him

hurt —

like a wrong breath.

I thought:

So this is it.

The thing movies talk about.

The thing symphonies are written for.

The reason

people run through airports

and kiss in the rain.

Have you ever touched something

so warm

that years later

your hands still remember the heat?

That was him.

And then —

he left.

No drama.

No shouting.

Just silence.

A door

that closes softly,

but for good.

And I swear,

since then

every love song feels

like it’s laughing at me.

Because now I understand.

I tasted it once,

and the aftertaste remains.

People talk about “letting go”

as if love were something

you could wash off — like dirt.

And everyone says:

“You’ll find someone new.”

But they don’t understand —

I don’t find love.

I don’t just feel it.

I don’t feel it at all,

maybe once a decade,

if the universe is kind.

The rest of the time,

I am the witness.

I watch.

I listen.

I collect fragments

of other people’s romance,

like shells

I will never use.

I scroll through photos of couples,

and there’s a pull inside me —

not envy,

just curiosity.

How do they do it?

How do they fall again and again

without losing themselves?

I envy their repetition.

Their ease.

The way love comes to them

like oxygen.

For me, it’s like lightning —

once in a lifetime,

beautiful,

terrible,

and then gone.

So yes —

I long.

I long for longing itself.

For the chaotic, cinematic,

terrifying desire.

For the way love makes people brave.

The way it makes them foolish.

I want to feel that rush again —

reckless,

tender,

alive.

But my heart

just sits there quietly,

like a bird

that once learned how to fly

and has forgotten it again.

And yet,

there is beauty in this stillness.

Beauty in the way

I love my friends

without wanting to possess them.

The way I write about closeness

without calling it romantic.

The way I find magic

in laughter,

in shared silence,

in the small gesture

of being remembered.

Maybe that is my version of love.

Not the storm,

but the quiet after.

Not the lightning,

but the hum of the sky before it.

Because even if I never fall again —

I am full of feeling.

Full of tenderness.

Full of poems

about a heart

that beats differently,

but beats.

So no —

I was never in love,

except once.

And that is enough.

Enough to understand

why people chase it.

Enough to know

how it destroys and renews.

Enough to miss it,

even when it’s gone.

And maybe,

if the universe is kind,

I’ll feel that warmth again.

But if not —

that’s okay too.

Because I was there.

Once.

And once

was real enough

to echo forever.

[coldbrewreaperr]

Pain and Affection

a poem by Linus

I learned love

in rooms where I had to stay quiet

to stay safe.

I learned it from people

who called chaos passion

and distance maturity.

From hands that held me

like they were afraid I might ask for more.

I learned early

that love meant shrinking.

That wanting too much

was the fastest way to be left.

So I stayed

in relationships that felt like negotiations.

Like I had to earn kindness

with patience,

earn honesty with forgiveness,

earn loyalty by pretending I didn’t need it.

I mistook survival

for compatibility.

I mistook intensity

for intimacy.

And every time I got hurt,

I told myself,

At least they chose me.

As if being chosen

was the same thing as being cherished.

Then you showed up.

And you didn’t raise your voice.

Didn’t make me prove my worth

by suffering.

Didn’t treat affection

like a resource that might run out

if I touched it wrong.

You listened —

not like you were waiting for your turn to speak,

but like my words mattered

even when they were messy.

You loved me

without conditions I had to memorise.

Without tests I didn’t know I was taking.

You made consistency feel romantic.

And that terrified me.

Because when love is gentle,

you realise how much you’ve survived.

You realise how much of your past

was never supposed to be normal.

With you,

I stopped bracing for impact.

I laughed without checking the room.

I slept without fear in my jaw.

You didn’t fix me —

you just treated me like I was never broken.

And that’s the cruelest part.

Because when you left,

you didn’t just leave a hole —

you left a blueprint.

You taught me how it should have been

and then took it with you.

You ruined my ability

to settle.

Now I can’t unlearn

what safety feels like.

I can’t unknow

that love doesn’t have to hurt

to be real.

And I hate you for that.

And I love you for that.

Because now, when someone raises their voice,

my body says no.

When someone withholds affection,

my chest recognises the manipulation.

When someone calls chaos love,

I know they’re lying.

You didn’t stay —

but you changed the rules.

And maybe that’s the tragedy.

That the person who treated me right

was never meant to be the one

who stayed —

just the one who taught me

I deserved better.

So if you ever wonder

whether you mattered —

you did.

You were the proof.

The standard.

The line I won’t cross backwards again.

And even though losing you hurt

in a way I didn’t have language for,

I would rather know

what real love feels like

and lose it

than spend my life

thinking pain was all I was worth.

[coldbrewreaperr]

Mosaic

a poem by Linus

“I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved,

even for a heartbeat.”

I read that sentence somewhere a few months ago. Maybe an Instagram comment section, under a particularly sad video about a breakup.

And since then, it stuck with me. Stayed with me, burrowed in my chest in a way some quotes do.

“Art is meant to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” - Banksy

“But still, like dust, I rise.” - Maya Angelou

“And if you had to die, I’d envy the earth that wraps around your body.” - Albert Camus

…

…

I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved,

even for a heartbeat.

Not just the ones who stayed.

Not just the ones who knew my middle name

or my favourite way to be held.

I mean everyone —

the almosts,

the accidents,

the people who brushed past my life

and rearranged the furniture on their way out.

I am proof that contact leaves evidence.

Because love doesn’t need permanence

to be permanent.

Some people were in my life

for the length of a song.

Three minutes and forty-two seconds

and suddenly I walked differently.

Suddenly I laughed with my whole chest.

Suddenly I knew a new way to say my own name.

I am tiled with moments

that never got anniversaries.

Never got labels.

Never got permission

to matter as much as they did.

There are fingerprints in me

that don’t match anyone who’s still here.

Old friends.

Strangers.

Lovers I never got to call lovers

because the timing was a locked door

and we didn’t have the right key.

But my body remembers them anyway.

My body remembers how safety felt

before it learned fear.

My body remembers how hunger felt

before it learned to apologise for wanting.

I carry pieces of people

like stained glass in my ribs —

some of it warm,

some of it sharp,

all of it catching the light

when I stand in the right place.

And yes —

some of them hurt me.

Some of them loved me

with hands that shook

and then wondered why I flinched.

Some of them taught me

that affection can sound like control

if you whisper it sweetly enough.

Some of them didn’t mean to break me —

and some of them absolutely did.

There are missing tiles in my chest

where I had to learn

how to fill the gap myself.

Where I stood there

with glue on my hands

thinking,

No one teaches you how to repair the damage

left by someone who swore they cared.

No one teaches you

how to stop measuring new love

against old wounds.

No one teaches you

how to believe gentleness

when you’ve had to survive without it.

But I learned.

I learned by watching myself continue.

I learned that even the people

who stayed for a heartbeat

left me something useful.

A warning.

A boundary.

A new language for pain.

A sharper instinct.

A softer heart —

somehow both.

I am made of borrowed courage.

Secondhand hope.

Lessons I didn’t sign up for

but passed anyway.

I am made of the friend

who held me together in a bathroom stall.

The person who saw me once — really saw me —

and that had to be enough.

The love that arrived like a wildfire

and the one that felt like a lamp left on

when I came home late.

And here’s the thing —

I am not ashamed of how much of me

belongs to other people.

Because loving deeply

was never my flaw.

Letting myself be changed

was never my mistake.

If anything,

this mosaic is evidence

that I let the world touch me

and didn’t turn to stone.

So don’t call me shattered.

Call me assembled.

Call me deliberate.

Call me a living archive of connection.

I am a cathedral built from moments

that didn’t last

but mattered anyway.

I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved,

even for a heartbeat —

and if you look closely,

if you really look,

every piece still points back to me.