Forgotten gentle kindness,
days blur, nights sigh,
I run on empty promises,
never asking why.
A to-do list heavy,
rest crossed out each week,
I give and give,
but my spirit grows weak.
Lessons of love left unread,
quiet needs, never spoken—
In the mirror’s tired glance,
see a soul softly broken.
I hate rock bottom,
but I’m good at digging holes—
hands blistered from familiar work,
knowing exactly where the ground gives way.
I tell myself I’m searching for answers,
for something buried worth finding,
but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,
proving I still know how to disappear.
Rock bottom scares me
because it asks me to stop digging,
to stand still with the damage,
to look at what’s left
instead of what I can destroy next.
Digging feels like control.
Like movement.
Like I’m doing something
instead of admitting I’m tired.
But every hole looks the same
after a while—
dark, quiet, convincing.
I don’t fall because I don’t know better.
I fall because climbing feels
like hope,
and hope feels dangerous
when you’ve been let down before.
Still—
even with dirt under my nails,
even with gravity winning again—
some part of me keeps looking up,
measuring the distance,
wondering what it would take
to stop digging
and start building
instead.
My days keep blurring together,
nothing is happening,
but everything is happening.
I wake up, I move, I breathe—
do what I’m supposed to do.
Smile when it’s expected.
Hold it together long enough
to get through the day.
Time feels soft now,
like it doesn’t want to remember itself.
Mornings turn into evenings
before I notice I was even here.
I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.
Carrying things I don’t know
how to set down yet.
Waiting for something to make sense,
or maybe just waiting
to feel like me again.
So the days blur.
They pass quietly,
hand in hand,
like they’re trying to be gentle
with what I’m surviving.
Through the Fog 