Through the Fog

Tag: defiance

  • You Say I Can’t

    You say I can’t have him

    like love is something

    you get to hand out

    or take away.

    Like my heart

    needs your permission

    to beat the way it does

    when he says my name.

    You speak in lines and limits,

    in rules I never agreed to—

    drawing borders

    around something

    that never asked to be contained.

    But you don’t feel it.

    You don’t know

    what it’s like

    to find someone

    who quiets the noise,

    who fits into your thoughts

    like they’ve always belonged there.

    You don’t know

    how rare it is

    to feel seen

    without having to explain yourself.

    So don’t tell me

    what I can’t have.

    Don’t reduce this

    to right or wrong,

    allowed or forbidden,

    as if love

    has ever listened

    to reason.

    Because this—

    whatever this is—

    isn’t yours to judge.

    It lives in me.

    It breathes in him.

    And whether it lasts

    or breaks me open,

    it’s still mine

    to feel.

  • Spite Outshines the Sun

    So you’ll always have your time to shine,

    even in the winter of your darkest hour.

    Not a blazing sun—

    just a flicker, a pulse,

    the last light in a body that refuses to die.

    Some nights the world will feel engineered

    to swallow you whole,

    to freeze every soft part of you solid.

    You’ll mistake numbness for peace,

    silence for safety,

    and you’ll wonder if the darkness

    is the only thing that ever truly understood you.

    But even then—

    in the coldest corner of your own mind,

    where even your breath trembles—

    something small will keep glowing,

    not out of hope,

    but out of spite.

    A refusal to disappear.

    A spark no night has earned.

    A reminder that the world can’t bury

    what it never built.

    Not all light is gentle.

    Some of it survives by burning.

  • Hey, Depression, My Old Friend

    You always try to get the best of me—

    to take the last laugh,

    to rewrite my thoughts

    until they sound like yours.

    You whisper that I’m weak,

    that I’m late to my own life,

    that I should know by now

    you never really leave.

    Battling you isn’t easy.

    You know that.

    You know every fault line,

    every night I doubted myself,

    every fear I never said out loud.

    You wait until I’m tired

    and call it truth.

    You wait until I’m quiet

    and call it surrender.

    You think persistence makes you powerful.

    You think showing up uninvited

    means you own the place.

    You mistake familiarity for victory.

    But listen to me—

    I am still standing.

    Even when my legs shake.

    Even when I’m angry, exhausted,

    done pretending this is fair.

    I push back in ways you don’t see—

    by getting out of bed,

    by choosing to stay,

    by refusing to disappear

    just because you asked me to.

    You knock me down,

    and I get back up pissed off,

    breathing hard,

    learning my strength the long way.

    You don’t get the last laugh.

    You don’t get to finish my sentences.

    You don’t get to decide

    how this story ends.

    I will overcome you—

    not cleanly,

    not quietly,

    not without scars.

    But I will.