Through the Fog

Tag: anger

  • Hey, Depression, My Old Friend

    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.

  • Resentment, Unfinished

    When resentment rides high

    but emotions won’t grow,

    I feel everything

    and nothing

    in the same breath.

    Anger sharpens its teeth,

    paces my ribs,

    while feeling stays stunted—

    rootbound,

    afraid of the light.

    I want to care louder.

    I want to rage cleaner.

    Instead I exist in this in-between

    where hurt ferments

    but never transforms.

    It’s exhausting—

    carrying so much weight

    with nowhere for it to bloom.

    Just bitterness circling itself,

    calling that motion

    progress.

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.

  • The Hurt I Can’t Name

    Don’t tell me to soften it.

    Don’t tell me to pretty it up.

    The darkness in me isn’t gentle

    and it sure as hell isn’t poetic.

    Some nights the ache gets so loud

    I swear my skin hums with it,

    buzzing with a restlessness

    that wants out,

    wants release,

    wants something sharp enough

    to quiet the storm underneath.

    I pace the room like an animal

    looking for an escape hatch

    from my own ribs.

    Every breath burns.

    Every thought bruises.

    And the only language my pain speaks

    is urgency.

    I hate that I understand it.

    I hate that it calls to me

    in a voice that sounds like mine.

    I hate the part of me that listens.

    But I don’t give in.

    I just sit there, shaking,

    hands curled into fists,

    fighting a battle

    no one sees

    and no one applauds.

    And when the wave finally breaks,

    when the urge loosens its grip,

    I’m left exhausted,

    hollowed out,

    alive —

    but barely.

    Tell me again it’s “just a phase.”

    Tell me again to “think positive.”

    Tell me again that I’m “strong.”

    I’m not strong.

    I’m surviving myself

    one night at a time.

  • Be Careful With Yourself

    There is something

    self-destructive in me,

    a part that reaches for fire

    even when I know it burns.

    It whispers when I’m tired,

    pulls at me when I’m lonely,

    tries to convince me

    that chaos is comfort

    and ruin is familiar.

    So I have to be careful.

    Gentle.

    Honest with myself

    about the places I am fragile

    and the urges that pretend

    to be escape.

    I am learning

    that awareness is protection,

    that naming the darkness

    keeps it from sneaking up on me.

    I don’t shame myself

    for the battles inside me —

    I just hold my own hands tighter,

    choose softer ways to survive,

    and remind the hurt in me

    that I’m not abandoning it

    ever again.

    Because I can be dangerous

    to myself,

    yes.

    But I can also be

    the one who saves me

    if I stay aware,

    stay gentle,

    stay here.

  • Messed Up Kid

    I was just a messed-up kid

    trying to make sense of a life

    that never slowed down long enough

    for me to breathe.

    People saw the attitude,

    the anger,

    the way I shut down first

    so no one else could beat me to it.

    They didn’t see the trembling underneath—

    the part of me begging

    for someone to just stay.

    I learned early

    that love had sharp edges,

    and silence could bruise too.

    I carried secrets like stones in my pockets,

    heavy enough to drown me

    but somehow I kept walking.

    Every mistake I made

    felt like another reason to apologize

    for being alive.

    They called me trouble.

    They called me dramatic.

    They called me broken.

    But they never called me a kid

    who needed softness.

    Who needed someone to speak gently

    in a world that only knew how to shout.

    I grew up thinking chaos was normal,

    that pain was proof of living,

    that I had to earn every small piece of kindness

    by bleeding first.

    I didn’t know

    that survival doesn’t mean you’re unlovable—

    just that you had to grow thorns

    before you ever learned how to bloom.

    And yeah, maybe I was a messed-up kid.

    But I was also brave.

    I carried things I never asked for,

    held up a sky that wasn’t mine,

    and still managed to find a way

    to keep going.

    Now I look back at that version of me—

    the scared one,

    the angry one,

    the quiet one hiding behind wildfire eyes—

    and I want to tell them

    they weren’t ruined.

    They were shaped.

    Forged.

    Built out of battles

    they were never meant to fight alone.

    Maybe I was a messed-up kid,

    but I’m not that kid anymore.

    And if I am—

    if parts of them still live in me—

    I hold them gently now.

    I let them rest.

    I let them be more than their wounds.

    Because the truth is,

    I didn’t grow up wrong.

    I grew up surviving.

    And surviving

    is its own kind of strength.

  • Rage, Tiredness, and Everything Between

    I don’t even know where to start tonight.

    Everything feels too loud and too heavy, like the whole fucking world is pressing down on my chest and I’m supposed to just breathe through it.

    I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.

    I’m tired of acting like I fit anywhere, like I’m some puzzle piece with a place waiting for me. Most days it feels like I’m forcing myself into corners that were never meant for me.

    There’s this anger inside me I can’t explain—

    anger at the world, at myself, at everything I can’t control.

    It sits under my skin, buzzing, burning, making me want to scream just to hear something break besides me.

    And underneath the anger?

    I think there’s just exhaustion.

    A deep, bone-level tiredness from trying so hard for so long.

    Trying to be okay.

    Trying to care.

    Trying to convince myself I belong somewhere, anywhere.

    Tonight I don’t have answers.

    I don’t have hope or clarity or some neat lesson to wrap around this pain.

    I just have honesty—

    and the honesty is that it hurts.

    And I’m still here, somehow, sitting in it, writing it out because something in me refuses to let this be the final word.

    Maybe tomorrow will feel different.

    Maybe it won’t.

    But right now, this is where I am—

    not pretending, not polished, just me trying to breathe through the weight.

  • For My Dad

    When I was little,

    I watched you like a storm I couldn’t predict.

    I loved you,

    but I was scared of you too—

    the tone in your voice,

    the weight of your silence,

    the way the room changed when you walked in.

    I thought love meant waiting to be noticed,

    trying to be small,

    trying to be good enough

    for the version of you

    that didn’t always show up.

    As I got older,

    the fear turned into anger

    because being scared of you hurt less

    than still wanting you to see me.

    I said I hated you,

    but I didn’t—

    I just didn’t know how to love someone

    who felt a million miles away

    even when you were right in front of me.

    And Mom always said

    we fought so much

    because we’re just alike—

    same fire, same walls,

    same stubborn need to win the argument

    instead of admit we were hurt.

    We lost years to misunderstanding.

    To pride.

    To wounds neither of us had the words to name.

    But time has a strange way

    of softening the edges we once bled on.

    Somewhere between growing up

    and growing tired of carrying old ghosts,

    I learned the truth:

    you weren’t the villain,

    you were a broken man trying to love

    in a world that never taught you how.

    And now—

    now we talk.

    Now we laugh.

    Now I can sit beside you

    without bracing for impact.

    And I’m grateful—

    not because the past didn’t hurt,

    but because we didn’t let it win.

    I don’t love you because you were perfect.

    I love you because we both changed.

    Because we both stayed long enough

    to learn each other again.

    Because I finally get to say this

    without fear, without anger, without a knot in my chest:

    I’m glad you’re still here.

    And I’m glad I am too.

  • Choking on Words

    I’m choking on words

    I should have never thought of—

    the kind that burn going down

    and linger in the chest

    long after the moment’s gone.

    I’ve swallowed too many truths

    just to keep the peace,

    bit my tongue until it bled

    trying not to say your name.

    Some thoughts were never meant to be spoken,

    but they still echo—

    hollow and loud,

    like ghosts in an empty room.

    If you could see inside my mind,

    you’d find all the things

    I wish I’d never felt—

    and all the things

    I still do.

    So I breathe around the ache,

    let silence become my apology.

    Some words destroy when spoken,

    others destroy when kept.

    Either way,

    I’m still choking.

  • Kerosene

    I’m throwing kerosene

    on everything I love

    because it hurts less to watch it burn

    than to wait for it to leave.

    I don’t destroy things out of anger—

    I do it because I already know the ending,

    and I’d rather be the one holding the match

    than the one left in the smoke.

    There’s a sick kind of peace

    in turning love into ash.

    No more hoping,

    no more reaching,

    no more waiting for the floor to fall out.

    I don’t trust softness.

    I don’t trust survival.

    I only trust the fire—

    it never pretends to stay.

    It just devours everything.

    So I burn it all down

    before it can ruin me,

    and the worst part is:

    the only thing that ever really turns to ash

    is me. The fire wins.