I’m stuck here—
in this space between
who I was
and who I fought to become.
And I’m scared.
Not of falling apart loudly.
Not of breaking in some obvious way.
I’m scared of the quiet slide.
The subtle shift.
The old voice clearing its throat
inside my head.
I remember her.
The version of me
that didn’t care
what burned
as long as I felt something.
The one who mistook chaos
for control.
Who called self-destruction
freedom.
Who wore damage
like armor.
I buried her.
Or maybe I just
outgrew her.
But sometimes
when I feel cornered,
when life presses too close
to my ribs,
I feel her move.
Not gone.
Just waiting.
I don’t want to lose control.
I don’t want to wake up
one morning
recognizing the hunger
in my own hands again.
I worked too hard
to soften.
Too hard to breathe
before reacting.
Too hard to choose quiet
over fire.
Being stuck
is better than being reckless.
Stillness
is better than self-sabotage.
If this is the space
between breaking
and becoming—
then I will stand here.
Shaking.
But standing.
Because the fact
that I’m afraid
of going back
means I already know
I don’t belong there anymore.
Through the Fog 