Through the Fog

Tag: hidden pain

  • 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.

  • You’re Married to a Nightmare

    You don’t call it that.

    Not out loud.

    You call it stress,

    a rough patch,

    something every couple goes through

    if they just try hard enough.

    Because nightmares

    aren’t supposed to wear a ring,

    aren’t supposed to sit across from you

    at the same table

    and ask how your day was

    like everything is fine.

    But this one does.

    It smiles

    when people are watching.

    Speaks gently

    in rooms that echo.

    Knows exactly

    how to look like love

    from a distance.

    And you—

    you’ve learned the choreography.

    When to stay quiet.

    When to soften.

    When to shrink yourself

    just enough

    to keep the peace

    from breaking open.

    You measure your words

    like they could detonate.

    You swallow reactions

    before they reach your mouth.

    You become careful

    in ways that don’t feel like you anymore.

    And still—

    it’s never quite enough.

    There’s always a shift.

    A tone.

    A silence

    that stretches too long.

    Something small

    that turns into something bigger

    before you can stop it.

    So you adjust again.

    Call it compromise.

    Call it patience.

    Call it love.

    Anything

    but what it feels like

    when the lights go out

    and you’re left alone

    with the version of this

    no one else sees.

    Because how do you explain

    that the person

    you promised forever to

    is the same one

    you brace yourself for?

    How do you leave

    something that still

    looks like a life

    from the outside?

    So you stay.

    Not because it’s easy—

    but because it’s complicated,

    and untangling it

    feels heavier

    than carrying it.

    But deep down,

    beneath all the reasons

    you’ve built to justify it—

    you know.

    Love isn’t supposed

    to feel like survival.

  • 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.