Through the Fog

Tag: anger

  • High Alert

    My body doesn’t trust the quiet.

    Even silence hums like danger.

    Every creak, every breath,

    feels like the start of something breaking.

    My heart sprints with no finish line,

    my hands forget how to rest.

    It’s not that I’m afraid of dying—

    I’m afraid of feeling this forever.

    The world moves in slow motion,

    but my thoughts race ahead,

    building fires where there’s only smoke,

    seeing ghosts in harmless shadows.

    I tell myself I’m safe,

    but my pulse calls me a liar.

    There’s no off switch,

    only exhaustion wearing my name.

    Still, I breathe—

    even if it’s shallow, even if it shakes.

    I remind myself:

    this is just my body trying to protect me,

    even when there’s nothing left to run from.

  • Words, They Always Win

    Photo Credit:Maxime Gilbert

    I’ll be so fucking rude,

    because softness never saved me.

    You’ll twist my quiet into guilt,

    call it proof that I don’t care.

    Words, they always win,

    but I know I’ll lose—

    every argument ends

    with me swallowing apologies

    for things I didn’t do.

    You speak like thunder,

    and I break like glass.

    My voice shakes,

    so I let silence speak for me,

    but even silence gets misheard.

    I’m tired of explaining pain

    to people who caused it.

    Tired of pretending I’m fine

    just so no one feels uncomfortable.

    Maybe I’m the villain

    in stories you tell to sleep at night,

    but I know what it costs

    to stay kind in a world

    that only listens when you scream.

    So tonight I’ll be loud,

    I’ll be wrong,

    I’ll be everything you said I shouldn’t—

    and maybe then,

    finally,

    I’ll win something back.

  • Rage

    Photo Credit:Kiara Kulikova

    I want to scream until the stars fall,

    until the sky cracks under the weight of my name.

    I’m tired of being calm,

    tired of pretending I don’t feel the storm.

    Let me burn—

    let me rip the silence wide open.

    Every bottled-up thought,

    every swallowed scream,

    every “it’s fine” I choked on—

    I want it out.

    Let me rage,

    wild and unpretty,

    until my chest stops shaking

    and I can breathe again.

  • I Made Peace With Being Forgotten

    I spent years believing I was unlovable.

    Not because anyone told me outright, but because life showed me in small, cruel ways — the way people left without warning, the way silence always followed honesty, the way I kept giving pieces of myself and watching them be forgotten.

    I thought I was somebody nobody could love.

    So I learned to disappear before anyone could confirm it.

    I became the friend who laughed too loud, the lover who didn’t ask for much, the person who said “I’m fine” even when I was anything but. I built walls and called them boundaries. I called loneliness “strength.”

    The truth is, I didn’t want to be loved — not really. I wanted to be seen and still chosen. I wanted someone to stay after finding out who I really was beneath the pretending. But when you spend enough time convincing yourself you’re unworthy, love starts to feel like a threat.

    I thought I was somebody nobody could love.

    But maybe it wasn’t love that was missing — maybe it was me.

    Maybe I left myself long before anyone else did.

    And now, slowly, painfully, I’m learning to return.

  • Hate is a Strong Word But..

    Photo Credit: Mattia

    I Hate Myself

    Not loudly. Not dramatically. Quietly. Constantly.

    It lives under my skin, humming like an old fluorescent light that never shuts off.

    I hate the way I breathe through days I don’t want.

    I hate how my body moves like a ghost inhabiting something that isn’t mine.

    I hate the weight of existing — the endless cycle of pretending, collapsing, rebuilding, pretending again.

    I’ve tried to love myself, but every time I get close, I pull away.

    Maybe because love feels like a lie when you’ve learned to survive without it.

    Maybe because hating myself feels safer — familiar, predictable.

    I’ve carved apologies into my silence.

    I’ve bled forgiveness that never came.

    And still, the mirror waits — patient, cruel — asking who I am without the pain.

    But I don’t know anymore.

    Maybe there’s nothing left underneath it.

    Maybe I’ve become the echo of every broken promise I ever made to myself.

    And maybe that’s why it’s so quiet now.

    Because even my soul is tired of screaming.

  • When the Fire Comes

    Photo Credit: Adam Wilson

    Rage is roaring like a fire out of control.

    It starts small — a flicker, a tremor in my chest — then suddenly it’s everywhere. Burning through reason, devouring silence, leaving only ash behind.

    I don’t even know what I’m angry at half the time. Maybe it’s everything. Maybe it’s myself. The way I keep trying to hold it all together when I know damn well I’m unraveling.

    There’s a part of me that wants to scream until my voice gives out. To throw something, to break something, just to prove I still exist — that there’s something alive inside me after all the numbness.

    But I don’t. I swallow it. I smile when I’m supposed to. I nod when people talk. I hide the fire and let it burn me from the inside out.

    Sometimes I think rage is just grief wearing armor — a way to feel powerful when all I really feel is broken.