Through the Fog

Tag: emotional depth

  • Call My Bluff

    Go ahead—

    call my bluff.

    Say it out loud,

    what you think I’m hiding

    behind all this calm.

    You see the way I don’t flinch,

    the way I keep my voice steady,

    like I’ve got nothing to lose

    and even less to prove.

    But you don’t see

    what it takes

    to make it look that easy.

    You don’t see

    the words I swallow,

    the reactions I bury,

    the truth I keep folded

    just beneath the surface

    in case it gets too real.

    So go on—

    push a little harder.

    Look a little closer.

    Because if you’re expecting

    a clean reveal,

    some dramatic unraveling

    that proves you right—

    you’ll be disappointed.

    I don’t break like that.

    I unravel quietly,

    in places no one’s watching.

    I fall apart

    where it doesn’t echo.

    And by the time

    anyone thinks

    to call my bluff—

    there’s nothing left

    to expose

    but the silence

    I learned

    to survive in.

  • Depths

    There are parts of me no one has ever seen,

    places too deep for language,

    too fragile for light.

    I’ve buried pieces of myself there—

    names, faces,

    entire versions of who I used to be.

    Some nights, the silence rises

    like a tide around my ribs.

    It pulls me under memories

    that still know how to breathe without me.

    I’ve learned that healing

    isn’t a clean thing.

    It’s jagged,

    like glass under skin—

    you stop bleeding,

    but you never forget where it cut.

    And yet,

    somehow, in the middle of all this ache,

    something gentle still grows.

    A small, stubborn hope

    that maybe the breaking

    was never meant to destroy me—

    only to show me

    how deep I could love,

    how deeply I could feel,

    and still come back whole.

  • What I’d Leave Behind

    I would paint the walls

    with every beautiful thing I am

    and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —

    layered thick,

    no clean lines,

    no apology for the mess.

    Joy smeared beside regret,

    love dripping into shame,

    gold pressed hard

    against the bruised colors

    no one likes to look at too long.

    I wouldn’t fix the edges.

    I wouldn’t soften the truth.

    There would be laughter

    caught mid-breath,

    and grief so old

    it’s learned how to sit quietly.

    There would be nights

    I survived out of spite,

    and mornings

    I stayed for no good reason at all.

    It wouldn’t be pretty.

    It would be mine.

    A room that says:

    this person felt deeply,

    broke often,

    kept going anyway.

    A testament to contradictions —

    light bleeding into dark,

    dark refusing to erase the light.

    If anyone stood there long enough,

    they’d see it wasn’t destruction

    I was trying to leave behind —

    it was proof.

    Proof that I was here.

    That I contained multitudes.

    That even the terrible things

    never managed

    to erase the beautiful ones.