Through the Fog

Blog

  • Irrational Emotion

    They call it irrational

    like naming it that

    should make it smaller.

    Like feelings

    need permission

    from logic

    to be real.

    I know it doesn’t make sense.

    I know the reaction

    doesn’t match the moment,

    that my chest

    shouldn’t tighten this fast,

    that silence

    shouldn’t feel like abandonment,

    that one small shift

    shouldn’t unravel

    an entire day.

    And still—

    it does.

    Because emotion

    doesn’t always ask

    what’s reasonable.

    It remembers.

    Old wounds

    wear new faces.

    Past pain

    learns new names.

    And suddenly

    I’m not just reacting

    to right now—

    I’m reacting

    to every version

    of this feeling

    I’ve ever survived.

    That’s what people miss.

    It’s not irrational

    when your body

    thinks it’s protecting you.

    Even if it’s wrong.

    Even if the danger

    isn’t real anymore.

    So no—

    maybe it doesn’t make sense

    from the outside.

    But inside this skin,

    inside a heart

    that learned fear

    before safety—

    it feels

    completely real.

  • 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.

  • Like I Always Do

    I let you down

    like I always do—

    at least that’s the story

    I keep telling myself

    every time someone looks at me

    with disappointment

    I saw coming long before they did.

    Maybe I’m too much.

    Too distant

    when things get real.

    Too damaged

    to hold anything good

    without shaking.

    I try—

    God, I try.

    But somewhere between

    wanting to be better

    and actually becoming it,

    I keep falling back

    into the same patterns.

    The same silence.

    The same mistakes.

    The same version of me

    I swore I’d outgrow by now.

    And the worst part is—

    I see it happening

    while it’s happening.

    Like watching a car crash

    from inside the driver’s seat

    with no idea

    how to stop it in time.

    So when you pull away,

    when your voice changes,

    when I feel the distance growing—

    part of me thinks

    of course.

    Of course I ruined it.

    Of course I became

    exactly what I was afraid of being.

    But maybe

    I’m not impossible to love.

    Maybe I’m just someone

    still learning

    how to stop expecting abandonment

    before it even arrives.

    Maybe I’m not letting everyone down—

    maybe I’m just exhausted

    from believing

    I always will.

  • I See Your Sadness

    I see your sadness—

    not the obvious kind,

    not the kind

    that asks to be noticed.

    The quiet kind.

    The one you tuck

    behind your words,

    the one that slips

    between sentences

    when you think

    no one’s paying attention.

    You carry it well.

    That’s the problem.

    You’ve learned

    how to soften your edges,

    how to smile

    just enough

    to keep people from asking.

    But it’s there.

    In the way you pause

    a second too long,

    in the way your eyes

    don’t quite stay

    where they should,

    in the way you exist

    like you’re holding something

    you don’t know

    how to set down.

    I don’t need you

    to explain it.

    I don’t need

    a version of it

    that’s easier to hear.

    I just need you

    to know this—

    you don’t have

    to hide it here.

    Not from me.

    Because I see it.

    And I’m not going anywhere

    just because

    you’re not okay.

  • Fuck You

    Fuck you—

    for the silence,

    for the half-truths,

    for making me feel crazy

    for noticing

    what was right in front of me.

    Fuck you

    for acting distant

    while still keeping me close enough

    to hope.

    For every mixed signal

    you dressed up like confusion

    when really

    you just didn’t want

    to let go

    or fully stay.

    And maybe

    that’s what hurts most—

    not that you lied,

    not even that you left—

    but that you let me

    keep believing

    there was something here

    worth fighting for

    while you were already

    halfway gone.

    I replay it sometimes—

    all the moments

    I should’ve walked away,

    all the times

    my gut knew better

    but my heart

    kept overruling it.

    So yeah—

    fuck you.

    Not because I still want you.

    Not because I need revenge.

    But because I deserved honesty,

    and you gave me confusion

    instead.

    And now I’m stuck

    untangling the damage

    from something

    you couldn’t even admit

    was breaking.

  • 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.

  • Sentimental Bullshit

    Call it sentimental bullshit—

    that soft, overused language

    people reach for

    when something real

    makes them uncomfortable.

    Love.

    Hope.

    Healing.

    Words that get dismissed

    the second they stop being easy.

    Like feeling deeply

    is something to outgrow.

    Like caring too much

    is a flaw

    instead of a risk.

    I’ve tried

    to strip it all down—

    make myself quieter,

    less affected,

    less invested

    in things that don’t stay.

    Told myself

    it’s better this way.

    Cleaner.

    Safer.

    No expectations.

    No disappointment.

    No reason to feel

    anything at all.

    But numb

    isn’t the same

    as strong.

    And pretending

    none of it mattered

    doesn’t make it true.

    Because even now—

    under all the doubt,

    all the cynicism,

    all the ways I’ve tried

    to harden—

    there’s still something there.

    Something stubborn.

    Something that refuses

    to turn into nothing

    just because it got hurt.

    So call it

    sentimental bullshit

    if you need to.

    I know what it is.

    It’s the part of me

    that still believes

    something real

    is worth feeling—

    even if it doesn’t last.

  • Still Coal

    They say pressure makes diamonds—

    like it’s a promise,

    like if you endure enough

    something beautiful

    is guaranteed.

    Like all this weight

    means something.

    But I’ve been under it—

    the expectations,

    the breaking points,

    the nights that felt like

    they’d cave in on me

    if I breathed too wrong.

    And I’m still here

    feeling like coal.

    Still rough.

    Still dark in places

    I can’t quite polish away.

    Still carrying the marks

    of everything that pressed down

    and didn’t turn me

    into something people admire.

    So what’s the difference?

    Is it time?

    Is it pressure?

    Or is it the way

    some things break

    before they ever get the chance

    to become anything else?

    Because no one talks about that—

    how pressure

    doesn’t always transform.

    Sometimes

    it just weighs.

    Sometimes

    it just leaves you

    exactly where you started—

    only more aware

    of how much you can carry

    without changing at all.

    But maybe—

    maybe being coal

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it means

    I haven’t hardened

    into something unbreakable,

    haven’t lost the parts of me

    that still feel,

    that still bend

    instead of shatter.

    Maybe I’m not finished.

    Not polished.

    Not perfect.

    Not what they promised

    I’d become.

    But still here.

    Still holding

    the same fire

    that made them believe

    in diamonds

    in the first place.

  • I’ll Be Okay

    I keep telling myself

    I’ll be okay—

    like it’s something

    I can decide

    and not something

    I have to live through first.

    Like saying it enough times

    will turn it into truth

    before I’m ready to believe it.

    Some days

    it almost works.

    I move through the hours

    without falling apart,

    without letting the weight

    pull me under.

    I answer questions,

    smile when I’m supposed to,

    pretend this version of me

    is steady.

    But “almost”

    isn’t the same

    as okay.

    It’s quieter than that—

    a careful balance

    between holding it together

    and feeling it slip.

    And still—

    I don’t give up on it.

    On the idea

    that one day

    those words

    won’t feel borrowed.

    That I won’t have to convince myself

    of something

    I already am.

    Maybe okay

    isn’t a destination.

    Maybe it’s this—

    showing up

    even when I don’t feel right,

    staying

    even when leaving

    would be easier.

    Maybe it’s not about

    feeling whole.

    Maybe it’s about

    not disappearing

    in the process

    of trying to be.