Through the Fog

Author: Emery Lane Grey

  • You Say I’m a Bitch

    You say I’m a bitch

    like it’s supposed to land heavy,

    like it should fold me in half

    or make me smaller

    for your comfort.

    Like I haven’t heard it before—

    from people who needed me quiet,

    easier,

    less likely to say

    no.

    You say it

    when I don’t bend,

    when I don’t soften my truth

    to fit your version of me.

    When I choose myself

    without asking

    if it makes you uncomfortable.

    And maybe that’s the problem.

    I stopped apologizing

    for having edges.

    Stopped explaining

    why I deserve space

    in a room I already stand in.

    You call it attitude.

    I call it awareness.

    You call it cold.

    I call it boundaries

    I learned the hard way.

    Because the same voice

    that calls me a bitch

    would’ve called me weak

    if I stayed quiet,

    grateful

    for less than I deserved.

    So say it again—

    if that’s the only language

    you know.

    But understand this:

    I didn’t become this way

    to hurt you.

    I became this way

    so I wouldn’t keep

    hurting myself.

  • Just Blowin’ Smoke

    You say it easy—

    like truth don’t weigh nothin’,

    like words don’t stick

    to the ribs of a person

    long after you leave.

    Just blowin’ smoke,

    you laugh—

    like that makes it lighter,

    like it don’t drift back down

    and settle in my lungs.

    I’ve heard that tone before—

    half-real, half-running,

    truth wrapped in a joke

    so you don’t have to own it.

    You speak in maybes,

    in almosts,

    in things that sound close enough

    to mean something

    but never land hard enough

    to hold.

    And I keep standin’ there

    tryin’ to read through the haze,

    wonderin’ what part of you

    is real

    and what part’s just

    habit.

    Because smoke looks beautiful

    when it catches the light—

    soft, shapeless,

    easy to mistake

    for somethin’ worth holdin’.

    But it don’t stay.

    It don’t answer.

    It don’t choose.

    It just fades—

    leavin’ behind

    the quiet taste

    of everything

    you never meant.

  • 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.