Through the Fog

Category: identity

  • Somewhere Between

    I always felt like I was

    in between—

    something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Never fully arriving.

    Never fully leaving.

    Just existing

    in the space

    between who I was

    and who I wanted to become.

    I knew the roads.

    I recognized the faces.

    But even in familiar places,

    I carried the feeling

    that I was only passing through.

    Like everyone else

    had roots,

    and I only had directions.

    I spent years

    thinking I was searching

    for a place.

    A city.

    A person.

    A life

    that would finally make me feel

    like I belonged.

    But no matter

    how far I ran,

    I took the distance

    with me.

    Because it wasn’t miles

    I was trying to cross.

    It was something inside me.

    A quiet emptiness

    that kept whispering,

    Almost.

    Not here.

    Keep going.

    So I did.

    Until one day

    I realized

    maybe I wasn’t meant

    to find home.

    Maybe I was meant

    to build it.

    Piece by piece.

    From forgiveness.

    From healing.

    From learning

    to stop running

    from the person

    I kept leaving behind.

    I always felt like I was

    between something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Maybe that’s what becoming feels like.

    Not lost.

    Just traveling

    the long way

    back to yourself.

  • The Version I Don’t Show

    There’s a version of me

    I don’t introduce people to.

    Not because I’m ashamed.

    Because explaining them

    would take too long.

    They live behind my smile,

    behind the stories I tell,

    behind every “I’m fine”

    that leaves my mouth

    before I’ve had a chance

    to think about it.

    They know things.

    The weight of regret.

    The sound of a heart breaking

    without making a noise.

    The loneliness

    that can exist

    even when you’re surrounded

    by people who care.

    They remember

    every goodbye

    I pretend doesn’t matter anymore.

    Every disappointment

    I claimed I was over.

    Every night

    I spent staring at the ceiling

    trying to convince myself

    tomorrow would feel different.

    And somehow—

    they’re still here.

    Still carrying pieces of me

    I haven’t figured out

    how to put back together.

    But maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe healing

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s learning

    to stop abandoning

    the versions of yourself

    that suffered in silence.

    Maybe it’s finally sitting beside them

    instead of running.

    Maybe it’s saying,

    I know you’re tired.

    I know you’ve carried this alone.

    But you don’t have to anymore.

    And maybe that’s where it begins—

    not with fixing,

    not with forgetting,

    but with finally

    coming home

    to yourself.

  • The Ghost I Became

    Somewhere along the way

    I became a ghost

    in my own life.

    Not gone—

    just distant.

    Watching days pass

    through windows I never opened,

    standing in rooms

    without really being there.

    People still say my name.

    Still ask how I’m doing.

    Still tell me stories

    like I’m part of them.

    And I answer.

    I smile.

    I nod.

    I play my role.

    But there are moments

    when I feel transparent—

    like everyone is talking

    to the version of me

    I used to be.

    The one who laughed easier.

    The one who believed

    tomorrow would fix things.

    I miss that person.

    Not because they were happier.

    Because they were present.

    Because they knew

    how to exist

    without carrying the weight

    of every mistake,

    every loss,

    every unfinished goodbye.

    But ghosts

    aren’t dead things.

    They’re lingering things.

    Things that haven’t found

    their way home yet.

    And maybe that’s me.

    Not lost forever.

    Not broken beyond repair.

    Just wandering through

    old memories

    a little too long.

    Trying to remember

    how to become flesh and blood again.

    Trying to remember

    what it feels like

    to truly be here.

  • Find My Way Home

    I keep thinking

    home is a place—

    a doorway I’ll recognize,

    a feeling that settles

    the second I step inside.

    But everywhere I go

    feels temporary,

    like I’m passing through

    something that was never

    meant to keep me.

    I’ve chased it in people—

    in the way they said my name,

    in the spaces they made for me,

    in the moments

    I thought I finally belonged.

    But people leave.

    Or change.

    Or become something

    I can’t stay inside of anymore.

    And suddenly

    I’m standing there again—

    hands empty,

    heart full of something

    that doesn’t know where to go.

    So I start over.

    New places.

    New faces.

    New versions of myself

    I hope will finally feel right.

    But the truth is—

    I’ve been looking outward

    for something

    that was never out there.

    Because home

    isn’t a person.

    It isn’t a place

    that can disappear on me.

    It’s something quieter than that.

    Something I have to build

    inside myself—

    piece by piece,

    through every mistake,

    every loss,

    every time I didn’t think

    I’d make it through.

    Maybe finding my way home

    isn’t about arriving.

    Maybe it’s about learning

    to stay

    with myself

    long enough

    to feel like

    I never left.

  • I’ve Been Known to Cross Lines

    I’ve been known

    to cross lines—

    not the ones painted on roads,

    but the invisible ones

    people draw around themselves

    and call safety.

    I don’t always see them

    until I’ve already stepped over,

    already said too much,

    felt too deeply,

    stayed too long

    or left too soon.

    They say I blur things—

    boundaries,

    meanings,

    the space between what’s allowed

    and what’s real.

    Maybe I do.

    Maybe I’ve spent too long

    living in places

    where lines kept moving,

    where rules changed

    depending on who was watching.

    So I learned

    to trust instinct

    over permission,

    feeling over distance,

    truth over comfort.

    And yeah—

    sometimes that costs me.

    Sometimes I lose people

    who needed things cleaner,

    clearer,

    easier to define.

    But I was never built

    for neat edges.

    I exist

    in the in-between—

    where things are messy,

    honest,

    alive.

    So if I cross a line,

    it’s not always rebellion.

    Sometimes

    it’s just me

    refusing to pretend

    I don’t feel

    what I feel.

  • Love Me, Hate Me

    Love me

    like I’m easy to understand—

    like my edges don’t cut,

    like my silence doesn’t mean anything

    you’d have to sit with.

    Hate me

    when I don’t fit the version

    you built in your head—

    when I don’t stay soft,

    don’t stay still,

    don’t stay yours.

    Love me

    in the moments I’m light—

    when I laugh,

    when I lean in,

    when I feel like something

    you can hold without effort.

    Hate me

    when I pull away,

    when I ask questions

    you don’t want to answer,

    when I stop pretending

    I don’t see everything.

    Because I am both—

    the part you reach for

    and the part you resist.

    I am the warmth

    and the warning.

    The comfort

    and the confrontation.

    So go ahead—

    love me,

    hate me—

    just don’t expect me

    to be only one

    so you can feel safe.

    I was never meant

    to be easy.