Through the Fog

Author: Emery Lane Grey

  • A Shade of Blue

    There’s a shade of blue

    that doesn’t live in the sky.

    It settles quieter than that—

    in the space between breaths,

    in the silence after a name

    you don’t say anymore.

    It isn’t loud enough

    to call itself sadness.

    It doesn’t break things.

    It just… stays.

    Like dusk

    that never quite turns to night,

    like water

    that looks still

    but pulls at you underneath.

    It shows up in small ways—

    in songs you don’t skip

    but don’t quite listen to,

    in moments that feel almost full

    but not enough to hold onto.

    You learn to carry it.

    That’s the strange part.

    Fold it into your days,

    wear it like something soft

    that doesn’t ask to be noticed

    but never lets you forget

    it’s there.

    And sometimes—

    in a flicker you didn’t expect—

    that blue

    catches a little light,

    and for a second

    it looks like something else.

    Not happiness.

    Not pain.

    Just a color

    that means

    you felt something

    and it stayed.

  • I Must Be Crazy

    I must be crazy—

    that’s what I tell myself

    when my thoughts won’t sit still,

    when my mind starts building storms

    out of whispers.

    When I read too much

    into silence,

    when I feel everything

    ten times deeper

    than it probably is.

    I must be crazy

    for holding onto things

    other people let go of easily,

    for replaying moments

    like they might change

    if I just think about them differently.

    For caring

    when it would be easier

    not to.

    For loving

    like there’s no halfway

    in me.

    But maybe it isn’t madness.

    Maybe it’s just

    what happens

    when a heart stays open

    in a world

    that keeps asking it

    to close.

    Maybe it’s the weight

    of feeling too much

    in places

    that reward feeling nothing.

    Maybe it’s being aware

    of everything—

    every shift,

    every tone,

    every almost.

    And yeah,

    it’s exhausting.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if “crazy”

    is just the name

    people give

    to anything

    they don’t understand

    about someone

    who feels deeply

    and refuses

    to go numb.

  • You Say I Can’t

    You say I can’t have him

    like love is something

    you get to hand out

    or take away.

    Like my heart

    needs your permission

    to beat the way it does

    when he says my name.

    You speak in lines and limits,

    in rules I never agreed to—

    drawing borders

    around something

    that never asked to be contained.

    But you don’t feel it.

    You don’t know

    what it’s like

    to find someone

    who quiets the noise,

    who fits into your thoughts

    like they’ve always belonged there.

    You don’t know

    how rare it is

    to feel seen

    without having to explain yourself.

    So don’t tell me

    what I can’t have.

    Don’t reduce this

    to right or wrong,

    allowed or forbidden,

    as if love

    has ever listened

    to reason.

    Because this—

    whatever this is—

    isn’t yours to judge.

    It lives in me.

    It breathes in him.

    And whether it lasts

    or breaks me open,

    it’s still mine

    to feel.

  • Numb Enough to Feel Nothing

    I’m fine, trust me —

    or whatever that word means

    when nothing touches me anymore.

    I move through the room

    like a ghost that forgot who it’s haunting,

    hands steady, heartbeat slow,

    mind blank in a way that feels

    almost peaceful

    and almost terrifying.

    The shadows stretch across the wall

    and I don’t flinch.

    I don’t feel anything,

    not fear, not relief —

    just the dull static of existing

    because my body hasn’t learned

    how to stop.

    I tell myself I’m fine

    because it’s easier than explaining

    how quiet it is inside my chest,

    how every emotion slips through my fingers

    before I can decide what to do with it.

    Nothing hurts.

    But nothing heals either.

    I’m just here —

    breathing out of habit,

    living out of muscle memory,

    waiting for something

    to break the silence in my bones.

  • You Quiet the World

    I want to talk about love—

    not the kind that announces itself,

    but the kind that slips in quietly

    and rearranges everything.

    The way you make the world fade

    without trying.

    How noise loses its grip

    the moment you enter my thoughts.

    Deadlines, doubts, the constant pull of elsewhere—

    all of it softens

    when it’s just you and me

    in the same mental space.

    I’ve never felt so connected,

    not in the dramatic sense,

    but in the steady one—

    like something ancient clicked into place

    and didn’t need explanation.

    You feel familiar in a way

    that makes my body relax

    before my mind can catch up.

    When I think about you,

    time behaves differently.

    Hours become manageable.

    Hard days grow handles.

    The distance between now

    and our next conversation

    stops feeling endless

    and starts feeling survivable.

    You get me through the in-between—

    the quiet stretches,

    the moments that usually drag.

    Just knowing you’re there,

    that your voice will find me again,

    is enough to carry me forward.

    This isn’t infatuation chasing sparks.

    It’s something calmer.

    Deeper.

    A connection that doesn’t demand

    constant proof—

    just presence.

    I don’t forget the world because of you.

    I remember myself.

    And that’s the kind of love

    that doesn’t burn out—

    it steadies,

    it anchors,

    it waits patiently

    until the next time

    we meet again in words.

  • Fighting Demons

    There are days I wake up already tired.

    Before my feet even touch the floor, it feels like I’ve been in battle all night — fighting thoughts that refuse to rest, memories that won’t fade, and voices that whisper I’m not enough.

    People talk about “fighting demons” like it’s some poetic metaphor. But there’s nothing poetic about watching yourself slip away while pretending you’re fine. There’s nothing beautiful about surviving on empty, about forcing smiles when your chest feels hollow.

    The demons aren’t made of fire and horns. They’re quiet. They’re patient. They look like guilt, grief, self-doubt — they wear the faces of people you loved and the words you wish you could take back.

    And some nights, I don’t win.

    Some nights, I just lie there, letting the darkness wash over me, telling myself it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not be strong all the time. Fighting doesn’t always mean striking back; sometimes it just means staying here. Breathing through it.

    Because the truth is, I’m still here.

    Even with the scars. Even when my mind turns against me.

    Even when the demons come knocking again — I open the door, look them in the eye, and whisper, “Not tonight.”

  • Depths

    There are parts of me no one has ever seen,

    places too deep for language,

    too fragile for light.

    I’ve buried pieces of myself there—

    names, faces,

    entire versions of who I used to be.

    Some nights, the silence rises

    like a tide around my ribs.

    It pulls me under memories

    that still know how to breathe without me.

    I’ve learned that healing

    isn’t a clean thing.

    It’s jagged,

    like glass under skin—

    you stop bleeding,

    but you never forget where it cut.

    And yet,

    somehow, in the middle of all this ache,

    something gentle still grows.

    A small, stubborn hope

    that maybe the breaking

    was never meant to destroy me—

    only to show me

    how deep I could love,

    how deeply I could feel,

    and still come back whole.

  • For a Better Day

    Some days, survival is the only goal.

    Not happiness. Not peace. Just getting through the next hour without breaking.

    I tell myself it’s okay to start small — to breathe, to rest, to exist quietly until the storm passes. Healing doesn’t happen all at once; it happens in moments you don’t even notice until later. The days you choose to keep going, even when you don’t know why.

    I’ve learned that not every sunrise feels like a beginning. Some just feel like another chance — to try again, to forgive myself, to believe that one day this weight will feel lighter.

    I don’t know when “better” starts.

    But I’m still here, still fighting for it, even when I don’t see it yet.

    Maybe that’s what faith really is —

    not knowing what tomorrow holds, but trying anyway.

    For a better day.

    For the version of me who still believes there’s something worth reaching for.

  • For the Very First Time

    I feel so alone

    for the very first time—

    not the quiet kind of lonely,

    but the hollow kind,

    the kind that echoes

    when I breathe.

    I feel like I’m letting go,

    like something inside me

    has slipped through my fingers

    while I wasn’t looking.

    Every little thing

    feels heavier than it should—

    like I’m carrying a sky

    that forgot how to hold itself.

    And fear…

    fear has come to stay.

    Not as a visitor,

    but as a shadow

    curling around my feet,

    following me from room to room

    as if it knows

    I’m too tired to fight it tonight.

    But even in this quiet collapse,

    even in this trembling place,

    some small part of me

    is still reaching—

    for light,

    for warmth,

    for anything that reminds me

    I don’t have to face this alone.

  • Spite Outshines the Sun

    So you’ll always have your time to shine,

    even in the winter of your darkest hour.

    Not a blazing sun—

    just a flicker, a pulse,

    the last light in a body that refuses to die.

    Some nights the world will feel engineered

    to swallow you whole,

    to freeze every soft part of you solid.

    You’ll mistake numbness for peace,

    silence for safety,

    and you’ll wonder if the darkness

    is the only thing that ever truly understood you.

    But even then—

    in the coldest corner of your own mind,

    where even your breath trembles—

    something small will keep glowing,

    not out of hope,

    but out of spite.

    A refusal to disappear.

    A spark no night has earned.

    A reminder that the world can’t bury

    what it never built.

    Not all light is gentle.

    Some of it survives by burning.