Through the Fog

Blog

  • A Little Too Much

    I’ve been told

    I take my anger out on everyone else,

    like I’m swinging at shadows

    because I’m too afraid

    to hit the truth.

    They say I’ve been drinking too much,

    that my nights blur together

    because it’s easier

    than remembering them clearly.

    That the glass in my hand

    has become the closest thing

    I have to quiet.

    And the worst part is—

    they’re not wrong.

    I see the hurt in their eyes

    when my voice gets sharp,

    when my patience snaps,

    when I become someone

    I promised I’d never be.

    I know they’re reaching for me,

    but half the time

    I’m too far inside myself

    to reach back.

    Some days I don’t even know

    who I’m trying to protect—

    them, or the version of me

    that’s already breaking.

    I don’t drink to forget.

    I drink because remembering

    hurts in ways I can’t explain.

    Because silence echoes,

    and loneliness grows teeth,

    and some nights my chest

    feels too small

    for everything I’ve swallowed.

    I wish I could be better,

    softer,

    easier to love.

    But most days

    I’m just trying to keep myself

    from falling apart in the middle

    of someone else’s arms.

    And I know—

    I know—

    I’m losing pieces of myself

    trying to outrun pain

    that follows me everywhere.

    I just hope one day

    I learn how to stop breaking

    the people who stay.

  • Is Happiness an Illusion

    Is happiness an illusion—

    a trick of light

    on the surface of water,

    beautiful

    until you reach for it?

    I’ve watched it move

    from hand to hand,

    seen people swear

    they finally found it

    only to lose it again

    in the quiet hours.

    Maybe happiness

    was never meant to stay.

    Maybe it’s not a house

    we live inside forever,

    but a window

    that opens sometimes

    when the air is right.

    We expect permanence.

    We want something solid—

    a promise

    that once joy arrives

    it will unpack its bags

    and call our hearts home.

    But life

    is less certain than that.

    Joy flickers.

    Peace comes and goes.

    Even love

    changes shape

    as the years move through it.

    So maybe happiness

    isn’t an illusion.

    Maybe it’s a visitor—

    brief, real,

    impossible to cage.

    Something that passes through

    just long enough

    to remind us

    why we keep living

    in the first place.

  • Whatever Makes You Happy

    Whatever makes you happy—

    even if it isn’t me.

    Even if my name slowly fades

    from the places you once said it softly,

    like it mattered.

    I’ll stand back and watch you choose a life

    that doesn’t include my hands,

    my voice,

    my late-night honesty.

    I’ll pretend it doesn’t bruise

    to see you light up

    in a room I no longer enter.

    I wanted to be the place you rested,

    not the lesson you learned from.

    I wanted to be the reason you stayed,

    not the reason you grew brave enough to leave.

    But wanting has never been the same

    as being enough.

    So I’ll love you in the quiet ways—

    the ways that don’t ask for proof

    or promises.

    I’ll love you like distance loves memory:

    without interruption,

    without reward.

    If happiness finds you somewhere else,

    I won’t chase it down

    and beg it to look like me.

    I’ll swallow the ache,

    fold it neatly into my ribs,

    and call it grace.

    Just know—

    letting you go isn’t easy,

    and it isn’t clean.

    It’s choosing your peace

    over my longing,

    over the version of us

    I carried longer than I should have.

    Whatever makes you happy—

    I hope it holds you gently.

    I hope it sees you the way I did.

    And if you ever wonder

    why I disappeared so quietly,

    it’s because loving you meant knowing

    when to step out of the way.

  • Apologies to the Past

    I’m sorry things ain’t what they used to be—

    I say it like an apology,

    like time took a wrong turn

    and I’m somehow to blame.

    We were softer then.

    Or maybe just less honest

    about the cracks forming underneath.

    Back when laughter came easier

    and silence didn’t feel so loaded.

    Now everything carries history.

    Every word knows what came before it.

    Every pause remembers

    how things fell apart

    without making a sound.

    I miss the simplicity—

    the way hope didn’t need proof,

    the way love didn’t feel like work

    or risk or loss waiting its turn.

    But I also know

    we didn’t lose something for nothing.

    People grow.

    Truth shows up.

    Life asks more of us

    than nostalgia can answer.

    So I’m sorry, yes—

    for the distance,

    for the change,

    for the way “used to be”

    still aches when I say it.

    But I’m learning

    that different doesn’t always mean broken.

    Sometimes it just means

    we survived long enough

    to become real.

  • Leave

    Leave—

    before the walls remember my name,

    before the floorboards learn the sound

    of my shaking hands.

    Leave—

    while there’s still a part of me

    that believes I’m worth staying for,

    before the shadows start whispering

    everything I’ve tried to forget.

    I can’t promise I won’t miss you.

    I can’t promise I won’t ache

    in places you never even touched.

    But I won’t ask you to hold on

    to someone who keeps slipping

    through their own fingers.

    So go,

    while the door still opens,

    while the sky outside

    still carries a little color.

    Leave—

    not because I don’t care,

    but because I do.

    And because sometimes

    loving me

    means walking away

    before the darkness drags you down too.

  • I Will Wait

    I will wait for you —

    not with clocks or demands,

    but with a calm

    that knows some things

    take time to arrive.

    I’ll wait in the soft hours,

    in the spaces between messages,

    in the moments where wanting

    learns how to be patient

    without fading.

    There’s no rush in this.

    No pressure to become

    what we aren’t yet.

    Just a faith that says

    when you’re ready,

    I’ll still be here.

    I will wait for you

    the way the tide waits for the moon,

    certain without asking why,

    steady without needing proof.

    Not because I have nothing else,

    but because you are worth

    the quiet choice

    to stay.

  • One Year

    One year ago

    I put the glass down

    and it felt like

    putting down a weapon

    I had mistaken for comfort.

    I thought I was losing something.

    A ritual.

    A shield.

    A way to blur the sharp edges

    of my own mind.

    I didn’t know

    I was getting myself back.

    One year

    of raw evenings.

    Of sitting in rooms

    with nothing to soften them.

    Of learning that feelings

    don’t kill you

    even when they feel like they might.

    There were nights

    I counted minutes.

    Mornings I counted breaths.

    Days I counted reasons

    not to give in.

    No one saw

    how loud the quiet was.

    How heavy the air felt

    without the fog I used to live in.

    But I stayed.

    I stayed when cravings

    came dressed as nostalgia.

    When they whispered

    just one won’t matter.

    When they tried to rewrite history

    into something sweeter than it was.

    I remembered the truth instead.

    The shaking hands.

    The apologies.

    The pieces of myself

    I kept trading away

    for temporary silence.

    One year sober

    means I feel everything.

    The grief.

    The joy.

    The boredom.

    The beauty.

    It means my laughter

    is mine.

    My tears

    are honest.

    My mornings

    belong to me.

    I am not the wreckage

    I once was.

    I am not the hunger

    that used to run my life.

    I am a year of choosing

    clarity over chaos.

    Breath over blur.

    Staying over slipping.

    One year.

    And I am still here—

    not numbed,

    not hiding,

    not gone.

    Still here.

  • Unread

    The room is quiet

    in the way empty places breathe—

    soft, patient,

    like they already know

    no one is coming.

    Your name glows

    on the dark screen in my hands,

    a small white light

    that promises nothing.

    I tell myself

    silence doesn’t mean absence.

    That people have lives

    beyond the reach of my fears.

    But loneliness

    is a skilled storyteller.

    It takes a single unanswered message

    and builds a whole ending from it—

    a story where I was too much,

    or not enough,

    or simply forgettable.

    The minutes stretch thin.

    The night settles deeper.

    Across the room

    an empty chair waits

    like someone once meant to sit there.

    And I wonder

    how something so small—

    a pause,

    a delay,

    a quiet space between words—

    can echo so loudly

    in a heart

    that’s still learning

    how to believe

    someone might stay.

  • Perceived Abandonment

    It’s strange how loneliness can make you believe you’ve been abandoned, even when no one’s gone anywhere.

    It creeps in quietly — not as an event, but as a feeling.

    A hollow shift inside the chest, a soft whisper that says they don’t care anymore, even when they do.

    I know it’s not true.

    But in the moments when silence stretches too long,

    when messages go unread and days pile up in quiet stacks,

    it feels like proof.

    Proof that I’m too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once.

    It’s the oldest wound — that fear of being left behind.

    Not just by people, but by life itself.

    You start to think maybe everyone else got the map,

    and you were born to wander lost.

    I’ve learned that perceived abandonment isn’t about others leaving.

    It’s about the part of me that still believes love is temporary,

    that care has an expiration date,

    that any warmth will eventually fade.

    So I brace myself for endings that haven’t even begun.

    I pull away before anyone has a chance to.

    And then I call it loneliness, when really it’s just fear —

    the quiet kind that pretends it’s truth.

    But loneliness doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned.

    It means I’m here, still longing, still feeling, still alive enough to miss something.

    And maybe that’s not weakness.

    Maybe that’s the part of me still hoping

    someone will stay long enough to prove my heart wrong.

  • The Shape of Silence

    It’s the echo of every truth you never dared to speak, 

    a weight that settles in the hollow of your chest

    like something carved from grief

    and sharpened by silence.

    It crawls along the inside of your skull,

    slow and deliberate,

    leaving claw marks in places

    you swore nothing could reach.

    It fills the rooms of your mind

    with a stillness so absolute

    it feels like a warning.

    Breathing becomes a memory,

    a thing you used to know how to do

    before this presence learned your shape

    and wrapped itself around you

    with the cold precision

    of something that doesn’t need to rush.

    This isn’t a blanket—

    it’s a shroud.

    It doesn’t warm;

    it constricts.

    It tightens until your pulse forgets its rhythm

    and your ribs forget their purpose.

    It settles deeper than fear could ever go,

    into the marrow,

    into the places no light has touched in years.

    You can’t see it—

    that’s the cruel part.

    It hides just beneath the threshold of vision,

    drowning you in a darkness

    that feels personal,

    intentional,

    intimate.

    And somehow,

    it knows you’ll let it stay.