Through the Fog

Category: Poetry

  • Polished Lies

    Things are not always

    what they seem to be.

    Some truths wear a better disguise,

    polished enough to pass,

    softened just enough

    to be believed.

    Smiles can be rehearsed.

    Silence can mean more than words.

    And what looks like strength

    is sometimes just exhaustion

    standing upright.

    I’ve learned to look past the surface—

    past the shine,

    past the stories people tell

    to survive themselves.

    Because clarity doesn’t announce itself.

    It waits.

    Things are not always what they seem to be,

    and sometimes the real damage

    isn’t what’s visible—

    it’s what’s carefully hidden

    until no one’s left

    to notice.

  • Maybe It’s My Fault

    Maybe it’s my fault

    for not giving you

    enough attention.

    Maybe love is measured

    in minutes I missed,

    in texts I didn’t send fast enough,

    in the quiet times

    I needed for myself

    that you heard as absence.

    Maybe if I had been

    softer,

    quieter,

    smaller—

    you wouldn’t have felt

    so far away.

    I’ve turned this question

    over and over

    in my hands,

    like something sharp

    I keep choosing

    to hold.

    Because blame

    is easier to carry

    than truth.

    Truth asks harder things—

    like whether love

    should require

    my constant proving.

    Like whether care

    should feel

    like a test

    I’m always failing.

    Maybe I did miss moments.

    Maybe I wasn’t perfect.

    Maybe I couldn’t give

    everything

    you wanted.

    But love

    isn’t supposed

    to be starvation

    for one person

    and sacrifice

    for the other.

    Love should survive

    ordinary silence.

    It should breathe

    without permission.

    It should not crumble

    the moment

    I turn inward

    to find myself.

    So maybe

    it isn’t my fault

    after all.

    Maybe the truth

    is quieter

    and harder

    to accept—

    that I was trying

    to love you

    with a whole heart

    while slowly

    forgetting

    to love myself.

    And maybe healing

    begins

    the moment

    I stop asking

    what I did wrong

    and start asking

    why I believed

    I had to disappear

    to be loved.

  • Drawing Straws

    I keep drawing straws—

    each one shorter than the last,

    like fate is shaving inches

    off my hope

    with careful hands.

    I tell myself it’s random.

    Chance.

    Bad timing.

    A season that just won’t turn.

    But the pile at my feet

    says otherwise.

    Every time I reach in,

    I already know

    what my fingers will find—

    the splintered end,

    the one that means

    not this time,

    not for you,

    try again with less to stand on.

    I’ve learned to smile

    before anyone can pity me.

    Learned to nod

    like I expected it.

    Like disappointment

    and I have a private agreement

    to meet here.

    It’s strange

    how a person can grow smaller

    without anyone noticing—

    how hope can shrink

    quietly,

    like a wick burning low

    in a room no one enters anymore.

    Still, I keep reaching.

    Because somewhere inside me

    there’s a stubborn pulse

    that refuses to believe

    this is the only ending available.

    Maybe one day

    I’ll draw a long one—

    smooth, untouched,

    ridiculous in its generosity.

    Or maybe

    the miracle won’t be the straw at all.

    Maybe it will be the moment

    I stop measuring my worth

    by what I pull from a handful

    of borrowed luck.

    Maybe it will be

    when I finally let go of the cup,

    open my palm,

    and decide

    I was never meant

    to gamble

    for a life

    that was already mine.