Through the Fog

Author: Emery Lane Grey

  • Losing Sleep

    I’ve been losing sleep again—

    not because I can’t close my eyes,

    but because my mind

    won’t close with them.

    Every thought

    shows up louder at night.

    Every memory

    suddenly needs to be replayed

    like it’s trying

    to prove something.

    The room stays still,

    but my head doesn’t.

    It circles the same questions,

    the same regrets,

    the same unfinished conversations

    that should’ve died

    hours ago.

    I tell myself

    to let it go.

    As if the mind

    listens

    just because you’re tired.

    But exhaustion

    doesn’t stop thinking.

    Sometimes

    it makes it worse.

    So I lie there

    watching shadows shift,

    counting hours

    instead of sheep,

    feeling the weight

    of everything I avoided

    during the day.

    And somewhere

    between midnight

    and morning,

    I realize—

    I’m not really

    losing sleep.

    I’m losing peace

    one restless night

    at a time.

  • Stay

    Some nights

    the world gets too loud

    inside your head—

    every thought

    echoing,

    every memory

    sharper than it should be.

    And there’s a door there—

    not a real one,

    but close enough

    to feel like an option.

    It whispers easy answers.

    Shortcuts.

    Silence.

    And for a moment—

    just a moment—

    it feels like relief.

    But there’s another voice too.

    Quieter.

    Not convincing.

    Not strong.

    Just there.

    The one that says

    wait.

    Not forever.

    Not fix everything.

    Just—

    stay.

    Stay through this hour.

    Through this breath.

    Through the part

    that feels unbearable

    right now.

    Because feelings lie

    about how long they last.

    Because the version of you

    that made it this far

    didn’t do it

    by accident.

    Because even now—

    with everything heavy,

    everything blurred—

    you are still here.

    And that matters

    more than anything

    the dark is trying

    to tell you.

    So don’t decide tonight.

    Don’t close the door

    on something

    that might still change.

    Just stay.

  • It Scares Me

    It scares me

    how fast my mind can go there—

    how something small

    can open a door

    I didn’t mean to touch.

    Like there’s a version of me

    that knows the way out too well,

    that whispers in quiet moments

    when everything feels too heavy

    to carry again.

    I don’t always believe it—

    but I hear it.

    And that’s enough

    to make my hands still,

    to make me sit with myself

    a little longer

    than I want to.

    Because there’s another part—

    quieter,

    harder to hear—

    the one that stays.

    The one that waits

    for the storm to pass

    even when it doesn’t feel like it will.

    The one that knows

    these thoughts

    aren’t the same

    as truth.

    So I stay.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because I have answers.

    But because something in me

    is still choosing

    to be here—

    even when it scares me

    how close the edge

    can feel.

  • I Survived Myself

    Nobody talks about

    the version of you

    that almost didn’t make it.

    Not the dramatic kind—

    not the one that leaves

    a clean story behind.

    I’m talking about

    the quiet destruction.

    The nights

    you sat in your own head

    too long.

    The mornings

    you woke up tired

    of being you.

    The way you kept going

    not because you were strong—

    but because stopping

    would’ve meant facing it

    all at once.

    I have been

    my own worst place.

    My own war zone.

    My own reason

    for almost giving up.

    And still—

    I stayed.

    Not gracefully.

    Not beautifully.

    Not in a way

    anyone would applaud.

    I stayed

    out of stubbornness.

    Out of spite.

    Out of something in me

    that refused

    to disappear

    just because it hurt.

    People think survival

    looks like progress.

    Like healing.

    Like light.

    Sometimes it looks like

    getting out of bed

    when nothing in you

    wants to exist in the day.

    Sometimes it looks like

    breathing

    through something

    you don’t even have words for.

    Sometimes it looks like

    not ending it

    when you could have.

    So no—

    I’m not proud

    in the way they expect.

    I’m not fixed.

    I’m not finished.

    But I am still here.

    And if that’s all

    I’ve done—

    then that’s everything.

    Because I didn’t just survive

    what happened to me.

    I survived

    what it did

    to me.

  • Losing My Mind

    I think I’m losing my mind—

    not all at once,

    not in some dramatic collapse.

    Just slowly.

    In little ways

    that nobody notices

    unless they’re looking close.

    Forgetting things

    I shouldn’t forget.

    Overthinking things

    that shouldn’t matter.

    Turning the same thought over

    until it cuts deep enough

    to feel real.

    My mind doesn’t rest anymore.

    It loops.

    Repeats.

    Builds storms

    out of silence.

    And I keep trying

    to act normal—

    keep conversations steady,

    keep my face calm,

    keep pretending

    I’m not exhausted

    from fighting myself

    all day long.

    But it’s getting harder.

    The noise follows me.

    Into quiet rooms.

    Into sleep.

    Into moments

    that should feel safe

    but don’t.

    And the worst part is—

    I can still tell

    something’s wrong.

    I still recognize

    the distance

    between who I used to be

    and whoever this version is

    staring back at me now.

    Maybe I’m not losing my mind.

    Maybe I’m just carrying

    too much pain

    for too long

    without putting it down.

    But either way—

    I’m tired.

    Tired of feeling

    like my own head

    is a place

    I can’t escape from.

  • I Don’t Blame You

    I don’t blame you—

    that’s the part

    that surprises even me.

    After everything,

    after the quiet ways

    things unraveled

    without ever fully breaking,

    I expected anger

    to be louder.

    Cleaner.

    Something I could hold

    and point to

    and say

    that’s what I feel.

    But it isn’t.

    It’s softer than that.

    More complicated.

    The kind of understanding

    that doesn’t bring relief—

    just a different kind of ache.

    Because I see it now.

    The distance

    you didn’t know how to name.

    The hesitation

    you tried to hide.

    The way you stayed

    just long enough

    to convince both of us

    it might still work.

    You didn’t mean

    to hurt me.

    You just didn’t know

    how to love me

    the way I needed.

    And I didn’t know

    how to ask for less

    without losing myself.

    So we stood there—

    meeting halfway

    in a place

    that was never enough

    for either of us.

    And somehow

    that was worse

    than anything loud.

    No betrayal.

    No explosion.

    Just two people

    trying their best

    and still getting it wrong.

    So no—

    I don’t blame you.

    But I won’t pretend

    it didn’t cost me something.

    Because understanding

    doesn’t erase the damage.

    It just makes it harder

    to hate you for it.

  • Chasing Echoes in the Dark

    I’ve been chasing echoes

    in the dark—

    old voices,

    old versions of love,

    old wounds

    that still know

    how to call my name.

    Reaching for things

    that aren’t there anymore

    but somehow

    still feel close enough

    to touch.

    That’s the cruelty of echoes.

    They sound real.

    Familiar enough

    to make you turn around,

    to make you wonder

    if maybe this time

    something lost

    found its way back.

    But it never does.

    It’s just the sound

    of what already happened

    bouncing off empty places

    inside you.

    And still—

    I chase it.

    The memory

    of what was said.

    The silence

    of what wasn’t.

    The version of people

    I keep rebuilding

    from fragments

    because the truth

    feels harder to hold.

    Maybe I’m not chasing them.

    Maybe I’m chasing

    who I was

    before they became

    an echo.

    Before everything meaningful

    started sounding

    like distance.

    But the dark

    doesn’t return

    what it takes.

    It just teaches you

    how easy it is

    to mistake loneliness

    for something calling you home.

  • Irrational Emotion

    They call it irrational

    like naming it that

    should make it smaller.

    Like feelings

    need permission

    from logic

    to be real.

    I know it doesn’t make sense.

    I know the reaction

    doesn’t match the moment,

    that my chest

    shouldn’t tighten this fast,

    that silence

    shouldn’t feel like abandonment,

    that one small shift

    shouldn’t unravel

    an entire day.

    And still—

    it does.

    Because emotion

    doesn’t always ask

    what’s reasonable.

    It remembers.

    Old wounds

    wear new faces.

    Past pain

    learns new names.

    And suddenly

    I’m not just reacting

    to right now—

    I’m reacting

    to every version

    of this feeling

    I’ve ever survived.

    That’s what people miss.

    It’s not irrational

    when your body

    thinks it’s protecting you.

    Even if it’s wrong.

    Even if the danger

    isn’t real anymore.

    So no—

    maybe it doesn’t make sense

    from the outside.

    But inside this skin,

    inside a heart

    that learned fear

    before safety—

    it feels

    completely real.

  • P.O.S

    If I’m a piece of shit,

    there’s a reason why—

    people don’t just wake up

    one day

    already hardened,

    already angry,

    already convinced

    they’re something disposable.

    Something happened.

    Maybe not all at once.

    Maybe slowly—

    in the ways I learned

    to expect disappointment,

    to keep my guard up,

    to strike first

    before something else

    could hurt me.

    Maybe I got tired

    of being soft

    in places

    that treated softness

    like weakness.

    Maybe I became difficult

    because easy

    kept getting destroyed.

    That doesn’t excuse everything.

    I know that.

    I know I’ve hurt people.

    Know I’ve said things

    I can’t take back,

    become someone

    I barely recognize

    when the worst parts of me

    take over.

    But I’m tired

    of acting like pain

    appears out of nowhere.

    Like damage

    doesn’t leave fingerprints.

    Because nobody asks

    what made me this way.

    They just point

    at what I became.

    And maybe

    I am rough around the edges.

    Maybe I carry too much anger,

    too much regret,

    too many things

    I never learned

    how to put down.

    But underneath all of it—

    under the bitterness,

    the defense,

    the self-destruction—

    there’s still a person here

    trying to understand

    how they turned into someone

    they never meant to be.

    So if I’m a piece of shit—

    there’s a reason why.

    And maybe

    understanding that reason

    is the first step

    toward becoming

    something else.

  • Like I Always Do

    I let you down

    like I always do—

    at least that’s the story

    I keep telling myself

    every time someone looks at me

    with disappointment

    I saw coming long before they did.

    Maybe I’m too much.

    Too distant

    when things get real.

    Too damaged

    to hold anything good

    without shaking.

    I try—

    God, I try.

    But somewhere between

    wanting to be better

    and actually becoming it,

    I keep falling back

    into the same patterns.

    The same silence.

    The same mistakes.

    The same version of me

    I swore I’d outgrow by now.

    And the worst part is—

    I see it happening

    while it’s happening.

    Like watching a car crash

    from inside the driver’s seat

    with no idea

    how to stop it in time.

    So when you pull away,

    when your voice changes,

    when I feel the distance growing—

    part of me thinks

    of course.

    Of course I ruined it.

    Of course I became

    exactly what I was afraid of being.

    But maybe

    I’m not impossible to love.

    Maybe I’m just someone

    still learning

    how to stop expecting abandonment

    before it even arrives.

    Maybe I’m not letting everyone down—

    maybe I’m just exhausted

    from believing

    I always will.