Through the Fog

Category: Destruction

  • When the Glass is Empty

    You only smile like that

    when you’re drinkin—

    that loose, half-forgotten grin

    that shows up

    after the edges blur.

    It’s not happiness.

    It’s relief pretending to be joy.

    A borrowed light

    that flickers just long enough

    to make everyone believe you’re okay.

    Your eyes give it away.

    They don’t soften—

    they drift.

    Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself

    and left the rest behind to cope.

    I’ve seen that smile disappear

    as fast as it arrives,

    leave you emptier than before,

    like laughter echoing in a room

    no one stays in.

    You wear it well, though.

    Convincing.

    Almost beautiful.

    The kind of smile that makes people think

    the problem is solved.

    But I know better.

    That smile only shows up

    when the ache is muted,

    when the truth is diluted,

    when feeling less

    feels safer

    than feeling everything.

    And when the glass is empty,

    so is the room.

  • The Hurt I Can’t Name

    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.

  • Be Careful With Yourself

    There is something

    self-destructive in me,

    a part that reaches for fire

    even when I know it burns.

    It whispers when I’m tired,

    pulls at me when I’m lonely,

    tries to convince me

    that chaos is comfort

    and ruin is familiar.

    So I have to be careful.

    Gentle.

    Honest with myself

    about the places I am fragile

    and the urges that pretend

    to be escape.

    I am learning

    that awareness is protection,

    that naming the darkness

    keeps it from sneaking up on me.

    I don’t shame myself

    for the battles inside me —

    I just hold my own hands tighter,

    choose softer ways to survive,

    and remind the hurt in me

    that I’m not abandoning it

    ever again.

    Because I can be dangerous

    to myself,

    yes.

    But I can also be

    the one who saves me

    if I stay aware,

    stay gentle,

    stay here.