Through the Fog

Blog

  • I Don’t Care

    I say I don’t care

    like it’s armor—

    like if I repeat it enough

    it’ll harden into truth.

    Like it’ll quiet the part of me

    that still notices everything—

    every shift in your tone,

    every silence

    that lingers too long.

    I don’t care—

    that’s what I tell people

    when I don’t want them

    to see how much I do.

    Because caring

    has never been gentle with me.

    It digs in deep,

    makes a home in my chest,

    refuses to leave

    when it should.

    So I learned

    how to say it lightly,

    how to shrug it off

    like it’s nothing,

    like you didn’t matter

    the way you did.

    But the truth is—

    indifference

    is something I pretend to have.

    What I actually carry

    is quieter than that,

    heavier than that.

    Because if I really didn’t care—

    I wouldn’t still be here

    thinking about it

    long after

    you’re gone.

  • I’ve Been Known to Cross Lines

    I’ve been known

    to cross lines—

    not the ones painted on roads,

    but the invisible ones

    people draw around themselves

    and call safety.

    I don’t always see them

    until I’ve already stepped over,

    already said too much,

    felt too deeply,

    stayed too long

    or left too soon.

    They say I blur things—

    boundaries,

    meanings,

    the space between what’s allowed

    and what’s real.

    Maybe I do.

    Maybe I’ve spent too long

    living in places

    where lines kept moving,

    where rules changed

    depending on who was watching.

    So I learned

    to trust instinct

    over permission,

    feeling over distance,

    truth over comfort.

    And yeah—

    sometimes that costs me.

    Sometimes I lose people

    who needed things cleaner,

    clearer,

    easier to define.

    But I was never built

    for neat edges.

    I exist

    in the in-between—

    where things are messy,

    honest,

    alive.

    So if I cross a line,

    it’s not always rebellion.

    Sometimes

    it’s just me

    refusing to pretend

    I don’t feel

    what I feel.

  • Nothing But the Best

    I used to take

    whatever was given—

    half-answers,

    half-effort,

    half-love dressed up

    like it was enough.

    I told myself

    it was patience,

    that waiting meant loyalty,

    that settling

    was just another word

    for understanding.

    But I learned—

    the hard way—

    that you can give your whole heart

    to something

    that never planned

    to meet you halfway.

    And it will still take.

    So I stopped.

    Stopped explaining

    why I deserve more.

    Stopped shrinking

    to make room

    for people

    who never made space for me.

    Because love

    isn’t supposed to feel

    like convincing.

    It isn’t supposed to feel

    like earning.

    It shows up.

    It stays.

    It chooses you

    without hesitation.

    And now—

    I don’t want almost.

    I don’t want someday.

    I don’t want potential

    that never turns real.

    I want something steady.

    Something sure.

    Something that doesn’t

    leave me guessing

    where I stand.

    Nothing but the best—

    not because I’m perfect,

    but because I finally learned

    I don’t have to be

    to deserve it.

  • Love Me, Hate Me

    Love me

    like I’m easy to understand—

    like my edges don’t cut,

    like my silence doesn’t mean anything

    you’d have to sit with.

    Hate me

    when I don’t fit the version

    you built in your head—

    when I don’t stay soft,

    don’t stay still,

    don’t stay yours.

    Love me

    in the moments I’m light—

    when I laugh,

    when I lean in,

    when I feel like something

    you can hold without effort.

    Hate me

    when I pull away,

    when I ask questions

    you don’t want to answer,

    when I stop pretending

    I don’t see everything.

    Because I am both—

    the part you reach for

    and the part you resist.

    I am the warmth

    and the warning.

    The comfort

    and the confrontation.

    So go ahead—

    love me,

    hate me—

    just don’t expect me

    to be only one

    so you can feel safe.

    I was never meant

    to be easy.

  • Call My Bluff

    Go ahead—

    call my bluff.

    Say it out loud,

    what you think I’m hiding

    behind all this calm.

    You see the way I don’t flinch,

    the way I keep my voice steady,

    like I’ve got nothing to lose

    and even less to prove.

    But you don’t see

    what it takes

    to make it look that easy.

    You don’t see

    the words I swallow,

    the reactions I bury,

    the truth I keep folded

    just beneath the surface

    in case it gets too real.

    So go on—

    push a little harder.

    Look a little closer.

    Because if you’re expecting

    a clean reveal,

    some dramatic unraveling

    that proves you right—

    you’ll be disappointed.

    I don’t break like that.

    I unravel quietly,

    in places no one’s watching.

    I fall apart

    where it doesn’t echo.

    And by the time

    anyone thinks

    to call my bluff—

    there’s nothing left

    to expose

    but the silence

    I learned

    to survive in.

  • You Say I’m a Bitch

    You say I’m a bitch

    like it’s supposed to land heavy,

    like it should fold me in half

    or make me smaller

    for your comfort.

    Like I haven’t heard it before—

    from people who needed me quiet,

    easier,

    less likely to say

    no.

    You say it

    when I don’t bend,

    when I don’t soften my truth

    to fit your version of me.

    When I choose myself

    without asking

    if it makes you uncomfortable.

    And maybe that’s the problem.

    I stopped apologizing

    for having edges.

    Stopped explaining

    why I deserve space

    in a room I already stand in.

    You call it attitude.

    I call it awareness.

    You call it cold.

    I call it boundaries

    I learned the hard way.

    Because the same voice

    that calls me a bitch

    would’ve called me weak

    if I stayed quiet,

    grateful

    for less than I deserved.

    So say it again—

    if that’s the only language

    you know.

    But understand this:

    I didn’t become this way

    to hurt you.

    I became this way

    so I wouldn’t keep

    hurting myself.

  • Just Blowin’ Smoke

    You say it easy—

    like truth don’t weigh nothin’,

    like words don’t stick

    to the ribs of a person

    long after you leave.

    Just blowin’ smoke,

    you laugh—

    like that makes it lighter,

    like it don’t drift back down

    and settle in my lungs.

    I’ve heard that tone before—

    half-real, half-running,

    truth wrapped in a joke

    so you don’t have to own it.

    You speak in maybes,

    in almosts,

    in things that sound close enough

    to mean something

    but never land hard enough

    to hold.

    And I keep standin’ there

    tryin’ to read through the haze,

    wonderin’ what part of you

    is real

    and what part’s just

    habit.

    Because smoke looks beautiful

    when it catches the light—

    soft, shapeless,

    easy to mistake

    for somethin’ worth holdin’.

    But it don’t stay.

    It don’t answer.

    It don’t choose.

    It just fades—

    leavin’ behind

    the quiet taste

    of everything

    you never meant.

  • A Shade of Blue

    There’s a shade of blue

    that doesn’t live in the sky.

    It settles quieter than that—

    in the space between breaths,

    in the silence after a name

    you don’t say anymore.

    It isn’t loud enough

    to call itself sadness.

    It doesn’t break things.

    It just… stays.

    Like dusk

    that never quite turns to night,

    like water

    that looks still

    but pulls at you underneath.

    It shows up in small ways—

    in songs you don’t skip

    but don’t quite listen to,

    in moments that feel almost full

    but not enough to hold onto.

    You learn to carry it.

    That’s the strange part.

    Fold it into your days,

    wear it like something soft

    that doesn’t ask to be noticed

    but never lets you forget

    it’s there.

    And sometimes—

    in a flicker you didn’t expect—

    that blue

    catches a little light,

    and for a second

    it looks like something else.

    Not happiness.

    Not pain.

    Just a color

    that means

    you felt something

    and it stayed.

  • 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.

  • You Say I Can’t

    You say I can’t have him

    like love is something

    you get to hand out

    or take away.

    Like my heart

    needs your permission

    to beat the way it does

    when he says my name.

    You speak in lines and limits,

    in rules I never agreed to—

    drawing borders

    around something

    that never asked to be contained.

    But you don’t feel it.

    You don’t know

    what it’s like

    to find someone

    who quiets the noise,

    who fits into your thoughts

    like they’ve always belonged there.

    You don’t know

    how rare it is

    to feel seen

    without having to explain yourself.

    So don’t tell me

    what I can’t have.

    Don’t reduce this

    to right or wrong,

    allowed or forbidden,

    as if love

    has ever listened

    to reason.

    Because this—

    whatever this is—

    isn’t yours to judge.

    It lives in me.

    It breathes in him.

    And whether it lasts

    or breaks me open,

    it’s still mine

    to feel.