Forgotten gentle kindness,
days blur, nights sigh,
I run on empty promises,
never asking why.
A to-do list heavy,
rest crossed out each week,
I give and give,
but my spirit grows weak.
Lessons of love left unread,
quiet needs, never spoken—
In the mirror’s tired glance,
see a soul softly broken.
You always try to get the best of me—
to take the last laugh,
to rewrite my thoughts
until they sound like yours.
You whisper that I’m weak,
that I’m late to my own life,
that I should know by now
you never really leave.
Battling you isn’t easy.
You know that.
You know every fault line,
every night I doubted myself,
every fear I never said out loud.
You wait until I’m tired
and call it truth.
You wait until I’m quiet
and call it surrender.
You think persistence makes you powerful.
You think showing up uninvited
means you own the place.
You mistake familiarity for victory.
But listen to me—
I am still standing.
Even when my legs shake.
Even when I’m angry, exhausted,
done pretending this is fair.
I push back in ways you don’t see—
by getting out of bed,
by choosing to stay,
by refusing to disappear
just because you asked me to.
You knock me down,
and I get back up pissed off,
breathing hard,
learning my strength the long way.
You don’t get the last laugh.
You don’t get to finish my sentences.
You don’t get to decide
how this story ends.
I will overcome you—
not cleanly,
not quietly,
not without scars.
But I will.
The day doesn’t end all at once.
It weakens.
Light thinning at the edges,
hours learning how to let go.
I watch it die quietly—
no drama,
no final words—
just shadows stretching
like they’re tired too.
The dying day carries
everything I didn’t finish:
conversations I rehearsed,
apologies I swallowed,
hope I meant to believe in
a little harder.
Night arrives
like an understanding,
not cruel,
just honest about what remains.
I sit with the dark
and take inventory—
what hurt,
what survived,
what I’ll try again tomorrow
if morning is kind.
The dying day doesn’t judge me.
It just leaves.
And somehow,
that feels like permission
to rest
without explaining myself.
Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I try, I keep finding new ways to mess things up.
Not on purpose. I don’t wake up thinking, let’s ruin something today.
It just happens.
A word lands wrong.
A feeling shows up before I can stop it.
A moment where pain speaks faster than logic ever could.
Why is it so easy to fuck up
and so hard to forgive yourself?
Maybe it’s because deep down, I expect perfection — from me, from everyone.
Like if I get it right this time, I’ll finally be enough.
But life doesn’t work like that.
Healing doesn’t either.
It’s two steps forward, three back,
and a quiet voice in between saying, try again tomorrow.
The truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can with what we know.
Sometimes trauma speaks louder than intention.
Sometimes old versions of us resurface when we’re tired and scared
and just trying to make it through the day.
But fucking up doesn’t mean we’re broken beyond repair.
It means we’re human —
still learning,
still fumbling,
still reaching for something better.
So yeah, it’s easy to fuck up.
But it’s also easy — if you let it be —
to start over.
I can’t help feeling like everything is at stake,
like one wrong move will collapse
every fragile thing I’ve been balancing.
So I lock myself inside my head—
bolt the doors,
pace the floors,
run in place until my lungs burn
and call it preparation.
I don’t freeze because I don’t care.
I freeze because I care too much.
Because every decision feels loaded,
every choice feels permanent,
every step forward feels like a gamble
I can’t afford to lose.
My mind turns into a track meet—
thoughts sprinting,
worst-case scenarios stretching,
my heart pounding like it’s doing something heroic
while my life stays exactly where it is.
I analyze.
I overthink.
I tear every option apart
until nothing feels safe enough to touch.
I tell myself I’m being careful,
that caution is wisdom,
that staying still is strategy.
But really—
I’m terrified.
Terrified of messing it up.
Terrified of proving every fear right.
Terrified that trying and failing
will hurt worse than never trying at all.
So I run in place.
Sweat, strain, panic—
no distance covered.
Just exhaustion layered on top of regret,
momentum without movement,
noise without progress.
I scream inside my head
while the world keeps going,
unaware that I’m fighting a war
no one can see
and losing ground by standing still.
I’m angry at the pressure.
Angry at myself.
Angry that wanting something badly
can paralyze you just as easily
as not wanting anything at all.
And maybe the cruelest part
is knowing this isn’t living—
it’s containment.
It’s fear disguised as discipline.
It’s survival mode
with nowhere to go.
I don’t need another plan.
I don’t need another rehearsal.
I need the courage to stop running in place
and accept that movement—
real movement—
will always feel dangerous
to someone who’s been hurt before.
But I’m so damn tired
of sprinting nowhere,
of locking myself away
from the very life
I’m trying so hard
not to lose.
I hate rock bottom,
but I’m good at digging holes—
hands blistered from familiar work,
knowing exactly where the ground gives way.
I tell myself I’m searching for answers,
for something buried worth finding,
but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,
proving I still know how to disappear.
Rock bottom scares me
because it asks me to stop digging,
to stand still with the damage,
to look at what’s left
instead of what I can destroy next.
Digging feels like control.
Like movement.
Like I’m doing something
instead of admitting I’m tired.
But every hole looks the same
after a while—
dark, quiet, convincing.
I don’t fall because I don’t know better.
I fall because climbing feels
like hope,
and hope feels dangerous
when you’ve been let down before.
Still—
even with dirt under my nails,
even with gravity winning again—
some part of me keeps looking up,
measuring the distance,
wondering what it would take
to stop digging
and start building
instead.
My days keep blurring together,
nothing is happening,
but everything is happening.
I wake up, I move, I breathe—
do what I’m supposed to do.
Smile when it’s expected.
Hold it together long enough
to get through the day.
Time feels soft now,
like it doesn’t want to remember itself.
Mornings turn into evenings
before I notice I was even here.
I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.
Carrying things I don’t know
how to set down yet.
Waiting for something to make sense,
or maybe just waiting
to feel like me again.
So the days blur.
They pass quietly,
hand in hand,
like they’re trying to be gentle
with what I’m surviving.
The only bad you’d ever done
was see the good in me—
a version of myself
I didn’t believe in,
a softness I’d buried,
a light I swore
I didn’t deserve.
You looked at me
like I was something worth keeping,
even when I was all sharp edges
and quiet storms,
even when I pushed you away
just to see if you’d stay.
You loved the parts of me
I learned to hide,
held the pieces
I was ashamed to touch,
saw something whole
in someone who felt
always broken.
Maybe that was the problem—
you saw the best in me
when I was drowning
in the worst of myself.
Maybe the only bad thing
you ever did
was believe
I was better
than I knew how to be.
Cigarette burns slow—
like regrets that don’t scream,
just smolder in the quiet
until you notice the damage.
They don’t rush.
They take their time
etching memory into skin,
into hours you thought would pass
cleanly.
Smoke curls like excuses,
soft, convincing, temporary—
but the mark stays.
Always does.
Some pain doesn’t explode.
It waits.
And by the time you feel it,
it’s already part of you.
I called, but there was no answer—
just the hollow ring
of my own hope bouncing back at me.
The line stayed open,
silent as an empty room
where your name still hangs in the air.
I rehearsed what I would’ve said,
every apology, every truth,
but silence swallowed them whole.
Maybe you were busy living,
or maybe you were learning
how to forget the sound of my voice.
I let the phone fall to my side,
realizing some distances
aren’t measured in miles—
they’re measured in unanswered calls.
Through the Fog 