Through the Fog

Author: Emery Lane Grey

  • The Ghost I Became

    Somewhere along the way

    I became a ghost

    in my own life.

    Not gone—

    just distant.

    Watching days pass

    through windows I never opened,

    standing in rooms

    without really being there.

    People still say my name.

    Still ask how I’m doing.

    Still tell me stories

    like I’m part of them.

    And I answer.

    I smile.

    I nod.

    I play my role.

    But there are moments

    when I feel transparent—

    like everyone is talking

    to the version of me

    I used to be.

    The one who laughed easier.

    The one who believed

    tomorrow would fix things.

    I miss that person.

    Not because they were happier.

    Because they were present.

    Because they knew

    how to exist

    without carrying the weight

    of every mistake,

    every loss,

    every unfinished goodbye.

    But ghosts

    aren’t dead things.

    They’re lingering things.

    Things that haven’t found

    their way home yet.

    And maybe that’s me.

    Not lost forever.

    Not broken beyond repair.

    Just wandering through

    old memories

    a little too long.

    Trying to remember

    how to become flesh and blood again.

    Trying to remember

    what it feels like

    to truly be here.

  • The Weight I Carry

    Some days

    I carry the weight of everything—

    every mistake,

    every goodbye,

    every version of myself

    I wish I could forget.

    Not because I want to.

    Because it follows me.

    In quiet moments.

    In songs I didn’t expect.

    In the pause

    between one thought

    and the next.

    I tell myself

    to put it down.

    As if grief

    is something you can leave

    on a table

    and walk away from.

    But some things

    cling to your hands.

    Some memories

    learn your shape

    so well

    they fit inside you

    like they were always meant

    to live there.

    And maybe

    that’s what growing older is—

    not learning how to forget,

    but learning how to carry

    what stays.

    The regrets.

    The losses.

    The people

    who became stories

    instead of futures.

    Still—

    I keep moving.

    Not because the weight

    gets lighter.

    But because somewhere along the way

    I got stronger

    than the things

    trying to drag me down.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe survival

    isn’t the absence of burden—

    maybe it’s learning

    how to walk forward

    with it anyway.

  • The Things I Don’t Say

    There are things

    I don’t say out loud—

    not because I don’t feel them,

    but because once words exist

    outside of me,

    they become harder

    to survive.

    So I keep them buried.

    The anger

    that never fully leaves.

    The loneliness

    that shows up

    even in crowded rooms.

    The fear

    that maybe I’ve spent so long

    pretending to be okay

    I forgot how to actually be it.

    People think silence

    means peace.

    They don’t realize

    silence can also mean

    containment.

    A dam holding back

    everything

    I don’t trust myself

    to release.

    Because I know

    what happens

    when pain spills over.

    How quickly

    it can ruin a moment,

    a relationship,

    an entire version

    of yourself.

    So I swallow it.

    Turn it inward.

    Carry it quietly

    until it becomes

    part of my posture.

    And still—

    some part of me

    wants to be understood.

    Not fixed.

    Not rescued.

    Just seen

    without having to translate

    every wound

    into something easier

    for other people to hold.

    Maybe that’s why I write.

    Because paper

    doesn’t flinch.

    And poems

    don’t ask me

    to make the truth

    sound prettier

    than it is.

  • Somewhere Between Healing and Ruin

    I exist

    somewhere between healing

    and ruin—

    not fully broken,

    not fully okay,

    just carrying both versions

    of myself

    at the same time.

    One side of me

    wants peace.

    Wants quiet mornings,

    steady hands,

    a mind that doesn’t turn

    every small hurt

    into something catastrophic.

    The other side—

    the one built from survival—

    still waits for things to fall apart.

    Still flinches

    at softness.

    Still searches for exits

    in places

    that haven’t given me

    a reason to run.

    And it’s exhausting

    living like that.

    Wanting to trust life again

    while secretly expecting

    it to disappoint me.

    Wanting love

    without believing

    it stays.

    Wanting to heal

    while holding onto pain

    like it’s proof

    I survived something.

    But maybe healing

    was never meant

    to look graceful.

    Maybe it’s messy.

    Slow.

    Two steps forward

    and one memory

    pulling you backward again.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and choosing

    to keep trying anyway.

    Even when the past

    still echoes.

    Even when the weight

    hasn’t fully lifted.

    Because ruin

    would’ve been giving up.

    And I didn’t.

    Not completely.

  • Story of My Life

    Story of my life—

    always halfway somewhere.

    Half over it.

    Half still hoping.

    Half healed.

    Half wrecked.

    Too aware

    of what’s wrong

    and somehow

    still repeating it.

    I leave doors cracked

    for people

    who already walked out.

    Replay conversations

    like maybe this time

    the ending changes.

    Say I’m done

    while still checking

    for signs

    I shouldn’t care about.

    I call it moving on

    when really

    I’m just dragging

    old versions of pain

    into new rooms.

    I get good

    at surviving things

    I should’ve never

    had to survive.

    Good at smiling

    through exhaustion.

    Good at saying

    “I’m fine”

    with a straight face.

    Good at making chaos

    look manageable.

    Story of my life—

    wanting softness

    but wearing armor.

    Wanting peace

    while feeding the thoughts

    that steal it.

    Wanting to be loved

    without knowing

    what to do

    when someone gets close enough

    to actually try.

    But somehow—

    despite all of it—

    I’m still here.

    Still trying.

    Still becoming

    something other than

    the worst chapters.

    Maybe that’s the story too.

  • Stuck Between Here and There

    I’ve been living

    stuck between here and there—

    between who I was

    and who I’m trying to become,

    between letting go

    and still looking back.

    Nothing feels settled.

    The past still pulls at me

    like it wants another chance,

    while the future stands distant,

    blurred out

    like something I’m not sure

    I’ll ever reach.

    So I exist in the middle.

    Half-healed.

    Half-hoping.

    Halfway out of places

    that no longer fit me

    but still feel familiar enough

    to miss.

    And maybe

    that’s why it hurts so much—

    because becoming

    isn’t clean.

    It’s uncomfortable.

    Lonely.

    A constant tug-of-war

    between comfort

    and growth.

    Some days

    I want to run backward—

    toward old habits,

    old people,

    old versions of myself

    that at least knew

    what to expect.

    But something in me

    keeps moving forward anyway.

    Even slowly.

    Even scared.

    Because deep down

    I know

    I can’t stay suspended forever.

    Eventually

    I’ll have to choose

    what parts of me

    come with me

    and what parts

    have to be left behind.

    Until then—

    I’ll keep standing

    in this in-between place,

    trying to believe

    that lost

    and becoming

    sometimes look

    exactly the same.

  • Heart of Stone

    They say I’ve got

    a heart of stone—

    like I woke up this way,

    cold from the beginning,

    untouched by anything

    that ever tried to reach me.

    But stone

    isn’t born hard.

    It becomes that way

    through pressure,

    through weather,

    through years

    of standing in storms

    with no shelter.

    People see the surface

    and stop there.

    They don’t see

    how many times

    I tried to love softly,

    how many times

    I opened my hands

    just to watch

    everything good

    slip through them.

    So I learned.

    Learned how to close off

    before something

    could get close enough

    to ruin me again.

    Learned how to act indifferent,

    how to keep my voice steady,

    how to pretend

    nothing touches me anymore.

    But pretending

    and feeling nothing

    aren’t the same thing.

    Because even stone

    remembers pressure.

    Even stone

    can crack.

    And underneath

    everything hardened in me—

    under the distance,

    the silence,

    the walls I built

    to survive—

    there’s still a heart there.

    Just one

    that got tired

    of bleeding

    every time

    it tried to be soft.

  • Happy

    I forgot

    what happy feels like.

    Not joy—

    I remember flashes of that.

    Moments.

    Temporary things.

    I mean happy

    in the quiet sense.

    The kind that settles in your chest

    without needing a reason.

    The kind that doesn’t feel borrowed

    or fragile.

    Lately, everything feels measured.

    Every smile examined

    like I’m trying to decide

    if I actually mean it

    or if I just got good

    at performing okay.

    People ask

    when I’ll finally be happy

    like it’s a destination,

    like one right choice

    or one right person

    is supposed to unlock it.

    But maybe happy

    is smaller than that.

    Maybe it’s not fireworks.

    Maybe it’s peace.

    A morning

    where your thoughts

    don’t immediately turn against you.

    A laugh

    that doesn’t feel forced.

    A moment

    where being alive

    doesn’t feel so heavy.

    And maybe

    I’ve been chasing

    the loud version of happiness

    for so long

    I forgot to notice

    the quiet kind

    still trying

    to reach me.

  • Bottom of the Sea

    I feel like I’ve been sinking

    for so long

    the bottom of the sea

    started feeling familiar.

    No sunlight here.

    No noise.

    Just pressure—

    constant, crushing,

    quiet enough

    to make you forget

    what breathing freely

    used to feel like.

    At first

    I fought it.

    Kicked toward the surface,

    reached for light,

    told myself

    I wasn’t meant

    to stay this deep.

    But exhaustion

    changes things.

    Eventually

    you stop fighting

    what keeps pulling you under.

    You let the dark

    wrap around you

    like something almost comforting.

    And that’s the dangerous part—

    how pain

    can become home

    if you live in it long enough.

    How loneliness

    starts sounding like peace.

    How silence

    starts feeling safer

    than hope.

    But somewhere

    beneath all this weight,

    beneath the wreckage

    and the parts of me

    that settled here years ago—

    there’s still movement.

    Still a pulse.

    Still something inside me

    remembering

    there’s a surface

    above all this.

    And maybe

    I haven’t drowned yet.

    Maybe

    I’m just lost

    deep enough

    to forget

    I was built

    to rise.

  • Im Getting Pretty Good at This

    I’m getting pretty good at this—

    the way I hold it together,

    the way I answer

    like nothing’s slipping.

    You’d never know

    how close it gets sometimes.

    How everything inside me

    leans just a little too far,

    like it might tip

    if I don’t stay careful.

    But I do.

    I keep my voice even.

    My face steady.

    My reactions small enough

    to pass as normal.

    I’ve learned the timing—

    when to speak,

    when to nod,

    when to let silence

    do the work for me.

    It’s not lying exactly.

    It’s… editing.

    Choosing which parts

    of myself

    get to exist

    in front of other people.

    And I’m good at it now.

    Good at being okay.

    Good at making it believable.

    Good at disappearing

    just enough

    to keep everything intact.

    But there are moments—

    small ones,

    quiet ones—

    where it almost breaks.

    Where I forget

    what I’m supposed to look like,

    what version of me

    I’m holding up.

    And I feel it—

    the weight

    of everything I’ve pushed down

    trying to come back up.

    I catch it though.

    I always do.

    Smooth it out.

    Lock it back in place.

    Go right back

    to being fine.

    I’m getting pretty good at this—

    and I don’t know

    if that’s something

    I should be proud of

    or afraid of.