Through the Fog

Tag: hidden pain

  • 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.

  • Polished Lies

    Things are not always

    what they seem to be.

    Some truths wear a better disguise,

    polished enough to pass,

    softened just enough

    to be believed.

    Smiles can be rehearsed.

    Silence can mean more than words.

    And what looks like strength

    is sometimes just exhaustion

    standing upright.

    I’ve learned to look past the surface—

    past the shine,

    past the stories people tell

    to survive themselves.

    Because clarity doesn’t announce itself.

    It waits.

    Things are not always what they seem to be,

    and sometimes the real damage

    isn’t what’s visible—

    it’s what’s carefully hidden

    until no one’s left

    to notice.