I don’t destroy myself loudly.
There are no explosions,
no dramatic exits.
Just a slow erosion—
choice by choice,
silence by silence.
I wear it like a habit.
Like something familiar
I reach for when I don’t know
what else to do with my hands.
Old patterns feel safer
than unfamiliar hope.
I sabotage gently.
Miss the calls that might save me.
Stay where I know I’ll be hurt
because at least it’s predictable.
Pain I recognize
feels easier than healing
I don’t trust.
I tell myself I’m in control.
That I could stop anytime.
That this isn’t destruction,
it’s coping.
But the mirror keeps count
of what I’m losing
even when I refuse to.
Some days it looks like recklessness.
Other days it looks like discipline—
like denying myself rest,
joy, softness,
as if I haven’t earned them yet.
That’s the trick of it.
Self-destruction doesn’t always beg.
Sometimes it convinces you
you deserve the damage.
I don’t hate myself—
that’s the lie people expect.
I just don’t know
how to be gentle
without feeling exposed.
So I choose what hurts
before something else can.
And still, somewhere under the ruin,
there’s a part of me
that notices the harm,
that flinches,
that wants out.
That part is quiet.
But it’s not gone.
Through the Fog 