Through the Fog

Tag: emotional vulnerability

  • Like I Always Do

    I let you down

    like I always do—

    at least that’s the story

    I keep telling myself

    every time someone looks at me

    with disappointment

    I saw coming long before they did.

    Maybe I’m too much.

    Too distant

    when things get real.

    Too damaged

    to hold anything good

    without shaking.

    I try—

    God, I try.

    But somewhere between

    wanting to be better

    and actually becoming it,

    I keep falling back

    into the same patterns.

    The same silence.

    The same mistakes.

    The same version of me

    I swore I’d outgrow by now.

    And the worst part is—

    I see it happening

    while it’s happening.

    Like watching a car crash

    from inside the driver’s seat

    with no idea

    how to stop it in time.

    So when you pull away,

    when your voice changes,

    when I feel the distance growing—

    part of me thinks

    of course.

    Of course I ruined it.

    Of course I became

    exactly what I was afraid of being.

    But maybe

    I’m not impossible to love.

    Maybe I’m just someone

    still learning

    how to stop expecting abandonment

    before it even arrives.

    Maybe I’m not letting everyone down—

    maybe I’m just exhausted

    from believing

    I always will.

  • Sentimental Bullshit

    Call it sentimental bullshit—

    that soft, overused language

    people reach for

    when something real

    makes them uncomfortable.

    Love.

    Hope.

    Healing.

    Words that get dismissed

    the second they stop being easy.

    Like feeling deeply

    is something to outgrow.

    Like caring too much

    is a flaw

    instead of a risk.

    I’ve tried

    to strip it all down—

    make myself quieter,

    less affected,

    less invested

    in things that don’t stay.

    Told myself

    it’s better this way.

    Cleaner.

    Safer.

    No expectations.

    No disappointment.

    No reason to feel

    anything at all.

    But numb

    isn’t the same

    as strong.

    And pretending

    none of it mattered

    doesn’t make it true.

    Because even now—

    under all the doubt,

    all the cynicism,

    all the ways I’ve tried

    to harden—

    there’s still something there.

    Something stubborn.

    Something that refuses

    to turn into nothing

    just because it got hurt.

    So call it

    sentimental bullshit

    if you need to.

    I know what it is.

    It’s the part of me

    that still believes

    something real

    is worth feeling—

    even if it doesn’t last.

  • I Don’t Care

    I say I don’t care

    like it’s armor—

    like if I repeat it enough

    it’ll harden into truth.

    Like it’ll quiet the part of me

    that still notices everything—

    every shift in your tone,

    every silence

    that lingers too long.

    I don’t care—

    that’s what I tell people

    when I don’t want them

    to see how much I do.

    Because caring

    has never been gentle with me.

    It digs in deep,

    makes a home in my chest,

    refuses to leave

    when it should.

    So I learned

    how to say it lightly,

    how to shrug it off

    like it’s nothing,

    like you didn’t matter

    the way you did.

    But the truth is—

    indifference

    is something I pretend to have.

    What I actually carry

    is quieter than that,

    heavier than that.

    Because if I really didn’t care—

    I wouldn’t still be here

    thinking about it

    long after

    you’re gone.

  • For the Very First Time

    I feel so alone

    for the very first time—

    not the quiet kind of lonely,

    but the hollow kind,

    the kind that echoes

    when I breathe.

    I feel like I’m letting go,

    like something inside me

    has slipped through my fingers

    while I wasn’t looking.

    Every little thing

    feels heavier than it should—

    like I’m carrying a sky

    that forgot how to hold itself.

    And fear…

    fear has come to stay.

    Not as a visitor,

    but as a shadow

    curling around my feet,

    following me from room to room

    as if it knows

    I’m too tired to fight it tonight.

    But even in this quiet collapse,

    even in this trembling place,

    some small part of me

    is still reaching—

    for light,

    for warmth,

    for anything that reminds me

    I don’t have to face this alone.

  • Unread

    The room is quiet

    in the way empty places breathe—

    soft, patient,

    like they already know

    no one is coming.

    Your name glows

    on the dark screen in my hands,

    a small white light

    that promises nothing.

    I tell myself

    silence doesn’t mean absence.

    That people have lives

    beyond the reach of my fears.

    But loneliness

    is a skilled storyteller.

    It takes a single unanswered message

    and builds a whole ending from it—

    a story where I was too much,

    or not enough,

    or simply forgettable.

    The minutes stretch thin.

    The night settles deeper.

    Across the room

    an empty chair waits

    like someone once meant to sit there.

    And I wonder

    how something so small—

    a pause,

    a delay,

    a quiet space between words—

    can echo so loudly

    in a heart

    that’s still learning

    how to believe

    someone might stay.