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 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.
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.
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.
Through the Fog 