Through the Fog

Tag: bad decisions

  • Fucked Up

    I know I’m fucked up.

    You don’t have to tell me.

    I’ve spent enough nights

    inside my own head

    collecting evidence.

    Every bad decision.

    Every person I hurt.

    Every bridge I burned

    then stood beside

    wondering why

    I had nowhere left to cross.

    I know.

    I know I’ve mistaken chaos

    for something familiar enough

    to call home.

    I’ve pushed away

    what felt too good

    and chased things

    that made me miserable.

    I’ve begged people to stay

    then made myself impossible

    to stand beside.

    I’ve wanted peace

    and somehow

    kept choosing war.

    That’s fucked up.

    But what nobody asks

    is how you get that way.

    How many times

    something has to hurt

    before pain becomes

    your first language.

    How long you have to survive

    before survival habits

    start looking like

    personality flaws.

    None of that excuses me.

    There are apologies

    I still owe.

    Things I’d undo

    if regret had hands.

    Versions of myself

    I wish I could sit down with

    and ask,

    What the fuck were you thinking?

    But I already know.

    I was hurting.

    And hurt

    doesn’t always make you gentle.

    Sometimes it makes you angry.

    Reckless.

    Distant.

    Sometimes it makes you destroy

    the very things

    you were terrified

    of losing.

    So yeah—

    I’m fucked up.

    But I’m also aware of it now.

    And maybe that matters.

    Because I don’t want

    to spend the rest of my life

    using my wounds

    as permission

    to keep creating new ones.

    I can’t rewrite

    who I’ve been.

    But I can decide

    who gets my name

    from here.

    And maybe someday

    I’ll look back

    at this version of me—

    messy,

    ashamed,

    trying like hell—

    and realize

    I wasn’t fucked up.

    I was unfinished.

  • I Dug My Own Grave

    I dug my own grave

    one bad decision at a time—

    not all at once,

    not dramatically,

    just slowly enough

    to call it living.

    A drink here.

    A lie there.

    Another thing

    I told myself

    I’d fix tomorrow.

    I kept throwing dirt

    over warning signs,

    burying the parts of me

    that knew better,

    that tried to speak up

    before everything got this deep.

    But I didn’t listen.

    I called it coping.

    Called it survival.

    Called it anything

    except what it was—

    self-destruction

    with softer language.

    And now I stand here

    looking down

    at the hole I made,

    realizing

    no one pushed me into it.

    That’s the hardest part.

    Not the damage.

    Not the regret.

    The knowing.

    Knowing my own hands

    built this.

    Knowing I became

    the thing

    I kept trying to outrun.

    But maybe

    that’s where change starts—

    not in pretending

    I’m innocent,

    not in blaming the world

    for every scar I carry—

    but in finally

    putting the shovel down.

    Because if I dug this grave,

    maybe I can still

    climb out of it too.