I’ve been known
to cross lines—
not the ones painted on roads,
but the invisible ones
people draw around themselves
and call safety.
I don’t always see them
until I’ve already stepped over,
already said too much,
felt too deeply,
stayed too long
or left too soon.
They say I blur things—
boundaries,
meanings,
the space between what’s allowed
and what’s real.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I’ve spent too long
living in places
where lines kept moving,
where rules changed
depending on who was watching.
So I learned
to trust instinct
over permission,
feeling over distance,
truth over comfort.
And yeah—
sometimes that costs me.
Sometimes I lose people
who needed things cleaner,
clearer,
easier to define.
But I was never built
for neat edges.
I exist
in the in-between—
where things are messy,
honest,
alive.
So if I cross a line,
it’s not always rebellion.
Sometimes
it’s just me
refusing to pretend
I don’t feel
what I feel.
Through the Fog 