Don’t tell me to soften it.
Don’t tell me to pretty it up.
The darkness in me isn’t gentle
and it sure as hell isn’t poetic.
Some nights the ache gets so loud
I swear my skin hums with it,
buzzing with a restlessness
that wants out,
wants release,
wants something sharp enough
to quiet the storm underneath.
I pace the room like an animal
looking for an escape hatch
from my own ribs.
Every breath burns.
Every thought bruises.
And the only language my pain speaks
is urgency.
I hate that I understand it.
I hate that it calls to me
in a voice that sounds like mine.
I hate the part of me that listens.
But I don’t give in.
I just sit there, shaking,
hands curled into fists,
fighting a battle
no one sees
and no one applauds.
And when the wave finally breaks,
when the urge loosens its grip,
I’m left exhausted,
hollowed out,
alive —
but barely.
Tell me again it’s “just a phase.”
Tell me again to “think positive.”
Tell me again that I’m “strong.”
I’m not strong.
I’m surviving myself
one night at a time.
Through the Fog 