It’s the echo of every truth you never dared to speak,
a weight that settles in the hollow of your chest
like something carved from grief
and sharpened by silence.
It crawls along the inside of your skull,
slow and deliberate,
leaving claw marks in places
you swore nothing could reach.
It fills the rooms of your mind
with a stillness so absolute
it feels like a warning.
Breathing becomes a memory,
a thing you used to know how to do
before this presence learned your shape
and wrapped itself around you
with the cold precision
of something that doesn’t need to rush.
This isn’t a blanket—
it’s a shroud.
It doesn’t warm;
it constricts.
It tightens until your pulse forgets its rhythm
and your ribs forget their purpose.
It settles deeper than fear could ever go,
into the marrow,
into the places no light has touched in years.
You can’t see it—
that’s the cruel part.
It hides just beneath the threshold of vision,
drowning you in a darkness
that feels personal,
intentional,
intimate.
And somehow,
it knows you’ll let it stay.
Through the Fog 