I want to change everything—
not out of hate for who I was,
but out of love for who
I’m finally brave enough
to become.
I’m tired of surviving days
that were meant to be lived.
Tired of shrinking myself
to fit places that never felt like home.
So I’ll start small—
a thought, a boundary, a choice.
And one by one,
the life I’ve been carrying
will learn how to let me go.
I don’t need to burn it all down.
I just need to stop building
on what was breaking me.
You should have left me at the door,
warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.
But you let me in—
soft smile, open hands,
no armor in sight.
Now your heart is on the floor,
shattered where my shadows fell.
I never meant to ruin the quiet,
I just never learned how to love
without bleeding through everything.
If I could gather the pieces,
I would.
But some of us arrive like storms—
not to destroy,
just never taught how to stay gentle.
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.
What’s the point of faking happy
when every laugh feels like a lie,
when every joke is just a decoy
to hide the part of me that wants to die.
The mirror knows my real face,
the one that sags when no one sees,
the eyes that stare at ceilings,
begging night to cut me free.
I say “I’m fine” like a password,
a code that keeps them from the truth,
because if they knew how loud it gets,
they’d hear the screaming of my youth.
The point of faking happy
isn’t hope or some bright end.
It’s just a way to stall the fall,
to last one more day,
and call it “pretend.”
Life is a drop in the ocean—
small, trembling,
lost before it ever knows
it was falling.
We spend our days
trying to matter,
trying to make ripples
in a world that swallows sound
and swallows sorrow
with the same quiet indifference.
A single drop
against a limitless tide—
that’s what we are.
Fleeting.
Fragile.
Here and then gone,
folded into something
too big to understand.
But maybe
that’s the strange beauty of it—
how one drop still shimmers
before it sinks,
how it reflects a whole sky
in the moment before release,
how it becomes part
of something vaster
than it could ever imagine.
Maybe life is small,
maybe it’s brief,
but it’s not meaningless.
Even a drop
changes the ocean
in some quiet,
unseen way.
And maybe
that’s enough.
Through the Fog 