Through the Fog

Tag: emotional suppression

  • Im Getting Pretty Good at This

    I’m getting pretty good at this—

    the way I hold it together,

    the way I answer

    like nothing’s slipping.

    You’d never know

    how close it gets sometimes.

    How everything inside me

    leans just a little too far,

    like it might tip

    if I don’t stay careful.

    But I do.

    I keep my voice even.

    My face steady.

    My reactions small enough

    to pass as normal.

    I’ve learned the timing—

    when to speak,

    when to nod,

    when to let silence

    do the work for me.

    It’s not lying exactly.

    It’s… editing.

    Choosing which parts

    of myself

    get to exist

    in front of other people.

    And I’m good at it now.

    Good at being okay.

    Good at making it believable.

    Good at disappearing

    just enough

    to keep everything intact.

    But there are moments—

    small ones,

    quiet ones—

    where it almost breaks.

    Where I forget

    what I’m supposed to look like,

    what version of me

    I’m holding up.

    And I feel it—

    the weight

    of everything I’ve pushed down

    trying to come back up.

    I catch it though.

    I always do.

    Smooth it out.

    Lock it back in place.

    Go right back

    to being fine.

    I’m getting pretty good at this—

    and I don’t know

    if that’s something

    I should be proud of

    or afraid of.

  • 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.

  • When I Dream

    When I dream,

    all I see is your face—

    not the version I tell the world about,

    but the one I still can’t look at

    without something in me breaking.

    My mind spills the truth at night,

    because sleep is the only place

    I don’t get to lie.

    The pain shows up unmasked,

    unfiltered,

    unapologetic—

    like it’s been waiting for the silence.

    But when I wake,

    I put the armor back on.

    I cover up how I feel

    with practiced smiles

    and sentences I don’t believe.

    People ask how I’m doing,

    and I give them the safe answer,

    the one that keeps the room comfortable.

    Nobody wants to hear

    that I still bleed in dreams.

    Nobody wants the version of me

    that doesn’t heal neatly.

    So I swallow it.

    The grief.

    The guilt.

    The nights that still replay like a warning.

    I only tell the truth in sleep—

    because the daylight demands performance,

    and I’ve gotten good at pretending

    I’m not still haunted.