There are parts of me no one has ever seen,
places too deep for language,
too fragile for light.
I’ve buried pieces of myself there—
names, faces,
entire versions of who I used to be.
Some nights, the silence rises
like a tide around my ribs.
It pulls me under memories
that still know how to breathe without me.
I’ve learned that healing
isn’t a clean thing.
It’s jagged,
like glass under skin—
you stop bleeding,
but you never forget where it cut.
And yet,
somehow, in the middle of all this ache,
something gentle still grows.
A small, stubborn hope
that maybe the breaking
was never meant to destroy me—
only to show me
how deep I could love,
how deeply I could feel,
and still come back whole.
Through the Fog 