What have I become, my sweetest friend,
when even your silence sounds like judgment?
When you look at me
like I’m something you remember
but don’t recognize anymore.
I’m made of aftermath now
of things that didn’t kill me
but stayed anyway.
I learned how to survive by shrinking,
by numbing the sharp edges
until nothing cut
and nothing healed.
I speak in half-truths.
I smile like it’s a habit I can’t break.
I carry my worst thoughts
like contraband
hidden, heavy, always with me.
I wasn’t born this hollow.
I was worn down.
Sandpapered by time,
by love that took more than it gave,
by nights that taught me
how easy it is to disappear
without going anywhere.
If you’re still calling me friend,
don’t ask me to be better.
Don’t ask me to go back.
That person didn’t survive this.
This is what’s left
quieter, darker,
harder to love,
still breathing
like that’s supposed to mean something.
Through the Fog 