Through the Fog

Category: Mental Health

  • Nothing Left to Fix

    I don’t want to be saved.

    Not tonight.

    Not by hope,

    not by promises that sound like recycled air.

    I’m not broken in a way

    that healing can touch.

    I’m worn down,

    thinned out,

    tired in a way sleep can’t reach.

    People say “keep fighting”

    like the bleeding hasn’t already happened.

    Like there’s some victory in dragging myself

    through another day

    that feels exactly like the last one.

    I don’t want answers.

    I don’t want light.

    I just want the noise in my head

    to stop scraping against my thoughts.

    If numbness is all I get,

    I’ll take it.

    At least it doesn’t hurt

    to feel nothing.

    And maybe someday,

    when the world isn’t this heavy,

    I’ll want more than breathing.

    But tonight—

    I’m just here.

    Not living.

    Not dying.

    Just here.

  • Kerosene

    I’m throwing kerosene

    on everything I love

    because it hurts less to watch it burn

    than to wait for it to leave.

    I don’t destroy things out of anger—

    I do it because I already know the ending,

    and I’d rather be the one holding the match

    than the one left in the smoke.

    There’s a sick kind of peace

    in turning love into ash.

    No more hoping,

    no more reaching,

    no more waiting for the floor to fall out.

    I don’t trust softness.

    I don’t trust survival.

    I only trust the fire—

    it never pretends to stay.

    It just devours everything.

    So I burn it all down

    before it can ruin me,

    and the worst part is:

    the only thing that ever really turns to ash

    is me. The fire wins.