Through the Fog

Tag: emotional numbness

  • The Ghost I Became

    Somewhere along the way

    I became a ghost

    in my own life.

    Not gone—

    just distant.

    Watching days pass

    through windows I never opened,

    standing in rooms

    without really being there.

    People still say my name.

    Still ask how I’m doing.

    Still tell me stories

    like I’m part of them.

    And I answer.

    I smile.

    I nod.

    I play my role.

    But there are moments

    when I feel transparent—

    like everyone is talking

    to the version of me

    I used to be.

    The one who laughed easier.

    The one who believed

    tomorrow would fix things.

    I miss that person.

    Not because they were happier.

    Because they were present.

    Because they knew

    how to exist

    without carrying the weight

    of every mistake,

    every loss,

    every unfinished goodbye.

    But ghosts

    aren’t dead things.

    They’re lingering things.

    Things that haven’t found

    their way home yet.

    And maybe that’s me.

    Not lost forever.

    Not broken beyond repair.

    Just wandering through

    old memories

    a little too long.

    Trying to remember

    how to become flesh and blood again.

    Trying to remember

    what it feels like

    to truly be here.

  • Numb Enough to Feel Nothing

    I’m fine, trust me —

    or whatever that word means

    when nothing touches me anymore.

    I move through the room

    like a ghost that forgot who it’s haunting,

    hands steady, heartbeat slow,

    mind blank in a way that feels

    almost peaceful

    and almost terrifying.

    The shadows stretch across the wall

    and I don’t flinch.

    I don’t feel anything,

    not fear, not relief —

    just the dull static of existing

    because my body hasn’t learned

    how to stop.

    I tell myself I’m fine

    because it’s easier than explaining

    how quiet it is inside my chest,

    how every emotion slips through my fingers

    before I can decide what to do with it.

    Nothing hurts.

    But nothing heals either.

    I’m just here —

    breathing out of habit,

    living out of muscle memory,

    waiting for something

    to break the silence in my bones.

  • What Have I Become

    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.