Through the Fog

Category: self-reflection

  • P.O.S

    If I’m a piece of shit,

    there’s a reason why—

    people don’t just wake up

    one day

    already hardened,

    already angry,

    already convinced

    they’re something disposable.

    Something happened.

    Maybe not all at once.

    Maybe slowly—

    in the ways I learned

    to expect disappointment,

    to keep my guard up,

    to strike first

    before something else

    could hurt me.

    Maybe I got tired

    of being soft

    in places

    that treated softness

    like weakness.

    Maybe I became difficult

    because easy

    kept getting destroyed.

    That doesn’t excuse everything.

    I know that.

    I know I’ve hurt people.

    Know I’ve said things

    I can’t take back,

    become someone

    I barely recognize

    when the worst parts of me

    take over.

    But I’m tired

    of acting like pain

    appears out of nowhere.

    Like damage

    doesn’t leave fingerprints.

    Because nobody asks

    what made me this way.

    They just point

    at what I became.

    And maybe

    I am rough around the edges.

    Maybe I carry too much anger,

    too much regret,

    too many things

    I never learned

    how to put down.

    But underneath all of it—

    under the bitterness,

    the defense,

    the self-destruction—

    there’s still a person here

    trying to understand

    how they turned into someone

    they never meant to be.

    So if I’m a piece of shit—

    there’s a reason why.

    And maybe

    understanding that reason

    is the first step

    toward becoming

    something else.

  • I Dug My Own Grave

    I dug my own grave

    one bad decision at a time—

    not all at once,

    not dramatically,

    just slowly enough

    to call it living.

    A drink here.

    A lie there.

    Another thing

    I told myself

    I’d fix tomorrow.

    I kept throwing dirt

    over warning signs,

    burying the parts of me

    that knew better,

    that tried to speak up

    before everything got this deep.

    But I didn’t listen.

    I called it coping.

    Called it survival.

    Called it anything

    except what it was—

    self-destruction

    with softer language.

    And now I stand here

    looking down

    at the hole I made,

    realizing

    no one pushed me into it.

    That’s the hardest part.

    Not the damage.

    Not the regret.

    The knowing.

    Knowing my own hands

    built this.

    Knowing I became

    the thing

    I kept trying to outrun.

    But maybe

    that’s where change starts—

    not in pretending

    I’m innocent,

    not in blaming the world

    for every scar I carry—

    but in finally

    putting the shovel down.

    Because if I dug this grave,

    maybe I can still

    climb out of it too.

  • It’s a Fucking Problem

    I keep saying it’s nothing—

    just a phase,

    just stress,

    just something I’ll get a handle on

    when things slow down.

    But things don’t slow down.

    They pile up.

    And I keep reaching

    for the same relief—

    the same distraction,

    the same escape

    that works just enough

    to keep me from dealing with it.

    Until it doesn’t.

    Until I’m sitting there

    staring at the mess

    I swore I wasn’t making,

    wondering how it got this far

    without me noticing.

    Or maybe I did notice.

    Maybe I just didn’t want

    to call it what it is.

    Because calling it something real

    means I have to face it.

    Means I can’t pretend

    it’s under control,

    can’t keep telling myself

    I’ll fix it tomorrow.

    But tomorrow

    keeps moving.

    And I keep staying

    right here—

    in the middle of something

    that’s starting to look a lot like

    it’s not going to fix itself.

    So yeah—

    it’s a fucking problem.

    Not because someone else said so.

    Not because it looks bad

    from the outside.

    But because I feel it—

    in the way it pulls at me,

    in the way it keeps showing up,

    in the way I keep choosing it

    even when I know better.

    And maybe that’s where it starts—

    not fixing it,

    not solving it all at once—

    just finally

    telling the truth

    about what it is.

  • I Must Be Crazy

    I must be crazy—

    that’s what I tell myself

    when my thoughts won’t sit still,

    when my mind starts building storms

    out of whispers.

    When I read too much

    into silence,

    when I feel everything

    ten times deeper

    than it probably is.

    I must be crazy

    for holding onto things

    other people let go of easily,

    for replaying moments

    like they might change

    if I just think about them differently.

    For caring

    when it would be easier

    not to.

    For loving

    like there’s no halfway

    in me.

    But maybe it isn’t madness.

    Maybe it’s just

    what happens

    when a heart stays open

    in a world

    that keeps asking it

    to close.

    Maybe it’s the weight

    of feeling too much

    in places

    that reward feeling nothing.

    Maybe it’s being aware

    of everything—

    every shift,

    every tone,

    every almost.

    And yeah,

    it’s exhausting.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if “crazy”

    is just the name

    people give

    to anything

    they don’t understand

    about someone

    who feels deeply

    and refuses

    to go numb.