Through the Fog

Tag: grief

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.

  • No Place for the Weary

    Photo Credit-Leon-Pascal Jc

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose,

    the table cold,

    the night mean,

    and luck looking at me sideways

    like it knew exactly who I was.

    This ain’t no place

    for the weary kind —

    not for hearts that bruise easy,

    not for hands that shake

    when the stakes get high.

    Out here, pain is currency,

    and everyone’s broke

    before the first drink hits the glass.

    I’ve gambled with ghosts,

    traded my future for a flicker,

    dared the darkness

    to take its best shot.

    And every time,

    the world leans in close

    and whispers through its teeth,

    you sure you’re built for this?

    But I keep rolling,

    keep breathing through the smoke,

    keep standing in rooms

    that were never meant to soften for me.

    Because somewhere in the rubble

    of all I’ve survived,

    there’s a fire that won’t burn out,

    a stubbornness that refuses

    to bow to the night.

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose —

    and maybe that’s the trick of it:

    when the world wants you broken,

    staying on your feet

    is the boldest bet you’ll ever make.

  • Wave of Sorrow

    It hits out of nowhere —

    that wave of sorrow.

    One minute I’m fine,

    the next I’m drowning in feelings

    I didn’t ask for.

    I don’t even know what triggers it.

    A memory.

    A song.

    A thought I didn’t catch in time.

    Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

    All I know is that it comes fast,

    cold and heavy,

    like the ocean pulling me under

    before I can take a breath.

    And I hate that I can’t control it.

    I hate that something so old,

    or so small,

    or so invisible

    can still crash over me

    and leave me standing there soaked in sadness

    for reasons I can’t explain.

    But the wave always passes.

    It always does.

    Even if it leaves me tired,

    or quiet,

    or a little more worn down than before.

    And when it does,

    I remind myself

    that surviving the tide

    still counts as strength.

  • Nothing Left to Fix

    I don’t want to be saved.

    Not tonight.

    Not by hope,

    not by promises that sound like recycled air.

    I’m not broken in a way

    that healing can touch.

    I’m worn down,

    thinned out,

    tired in a way sleep can’t reach.

    People say “keep fighting”

    like the bleeding hasn’t already happened.

    Like there’s some victory in dragging myself

    through another day

    that feels exactly like the last one.

    I don’t want answers.

    I don’t want light.

    I just want the noise in my head

    to stop scraping against my thoughts.

    If numbness is all I get,

    I’ll take it.

    At least it doesn’t hurt

    to feel nothing.

    And maybe someday,

    when the world isn’t this heavy,

    I’ll want more than breathing.

    But tonight—

    I’m just here.

    Not living.

    Not dying.

    Just here.

  • Kerosene

    I’m throwing kerosene

    on everything I love

    because it hurts less to watch it burn

    than to wait for it to leave.

    I don’t destroy things out of anger—

    I do it because I already know the ending,

    and I’d rather be the one holding the match

    than the one left in the smoke.

    There’s a sick kind of peace

    in turning love into ash.

    No more hoping,

    no more reaching,

    no more waiting for the floor to fall out.

    I don’t trust softness.

    I don’t trust survival.

    I only trust the fire—

    it never pretends to stay.

    It just devours everything.

    So I burn it all down

    before it can ruin me,

    and the worst part is:

    the only thing that ever really turns to ash

    is me. The fire wins.

  • I Wish You Were Here

    I wish you were here—

    not just in memory,

    not in dreams that vanish with the dawn,

    but here, breathing beside me.

    The nights are longer without you.

    The walls remember your laughter,

    but they don’t echo it right anymore.

    I keep reaching for a ghost

    that won’t reach back.

    Some days, I almost hear your voice,

    soft as wind against my skin,

    and I turn too quickly,

    forgetting—

    it’s just the world moving on without you.

    You should’ve seen the sunrise today.

    It broke through the clouds like hope

    pretending to be light.

    I stood there wishing

    you could’ve felt it too.

    I wish you were here—

    not because I need saving,

    but because some moments

    are too heavy to hold alone.

  • Drain Me

    Photo Credit: Europeana

    I thought about drinking the end,

    letting it burn its way through the ache,

    turning pain into silence.

    But somewhere between thought and act,

    a voice whispered—not yet.

    A trembling sound, small but alive,

    saying maybe there’s still a sunrise

    I haven’t seen.

    I get so tired of that voice—

    the voice of reason,

    always telling me there’s more to live for,

    a glimmer of hope I don’t want to think about.

    The world feels heavy,

    pressing against my ribs,

    reminding me I’m still here.

    And I am—

    shaking, breaking,

    breathing anyway.

    I don’t want to die.

    I just want the pain to stop

    before it swallows me whole.

  • Don’t Let Me Down

    You say you won’t let me down.

    And I almost believe you.

    Because your voice sounds steady, your words sound like safety, and for a moment I forget what disappointment feels like.

    But I’ve heard those promises before — soft and certain, dripping from lips that never meant to stay. People promise things they can’t keep, not because they want to hurt you, but because they don’t know how deep the hurt already runs.

    You say you won’t let me down, but life has a way of proving otherwise.

    It’s not always betrayal that breaks me — sometimes it’s the quiet absence, the unanswered message, the way someone’s warmth fades without warning.

    I’ve learned that love doesn’t always mean safety, and trust doesn’t always mean forever. Sometimes “I won’t let you down” just means “I’ll try, until I can’t anymore.”

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe the point isn’t to find someone who never lets me down — maybe it’s to learn how to stand up on my own when they do.

    Still, there’s a part of me that wants to believe you.

    That fragile, foolish part that hopes this time is different.

    That maybe when you say you won’t let me down… you mean it.

  • Beneath the Surface

    It’s more than just the cut.

    It’s the moment before it —

    when the world feels too heavy to hold

    and your own skin feels like a cage.

    It’s the silence that builds inside your chest,

    the scream you never let out,

    the ache you can’t name

    that demands to be seen somehow.

    People see scars and think they know the story.

    But they don’t see the nights you fought it.

    The times you cried yourself to sleep and woke up still fighting.

    The way you learned to smile so no one would ask questions.

    It’s not about wanting to die —

    it’s about not knowing how to live

    with the weight you carry.

    And maybe one day,

    you’ll look at those scars and see something different.

    Not shame. Not weakness.

    But proof —

    that you survived every version of yourself

    that thought you couldn’t.

    Because it’s more than just the cut.

    It’s the healing that came after,

    the courage it took to stay,

    and the quiet strength of a heart

    that refused to stop beating

    even when it wanted to.