Through the Fog

Tag: inner_battle

  • Self Destruction

    I don’t destroy myself loudly.

    There are no explosions,

    no dramatic exits.

    Just a slow erosion—

    choice by choice,

    silence by silence.

    I wear it like a habit.

    Like something familiar

    I reach for when I don’t know

    what else to do with my hands.

    Old patterns feel safer

    than unfamiliar hope.

    I sabotage gently.

    Miss the calls that might save me.

    Stay where I know I’ll be hurt

    because at least it’s predictable.

    Pain I recognize

    feels easier than healing

    I don’t trust.

    I tell myself I’m in control.

    That I could stop anytime.

    That this isn’t destruction,

    it’s coping.

    But the mirror keeps count

    of what I’m losing

    even when I refuse to.

    Some days it looks like recklessness.

    Other days it looks like discipline—

    like denying myself rest,

    joy, softness,

    as if I haven’t earned them yet.

    That’s the trick of it.

    Self-destruction doesn’t always beg.

    Sometimes it convinces you

    you deserve the damage.

    I don’t hate myself—

    that’s the lie people expect.

    I just don’t know

    how to be gentle

    without feeling exposed.

    So I choose what hurts

    before something else can.

    And still, somewhere under the ruin,

    there’s a part of me

    that notices the harm,

    that flinches,

    that wants out.

    That part is quiet.

    But it’s not gone.

  • The World Wouldn’t Stop Turning

    I didn’t move,

    but the world wouldn’t stop turning.

    Time kept its pace

    while I stood still inside myself,

    watching everything pass

    like I wasn’t part of it anymore.

    The sky seemed blue

    or maybe that was just my emotion

    projecting something softer

    onto a day that didn’t earn it.

    Funny how feelings can repaint reality

    and call it truth.

    I tried so hard to be cool about it,

    to play it off like nothing touched me,

    nursing a half-empty bottle

    or is it half full?

    I could never decide

    if I was losing something

    or still clinging to it.

    I drank for the pause,

    for the quiet between thoughts,

    for the moment where I didn’t have to name

    what was breaking underneath my calm.

    The world kept spinning.

    The sky kept pretending.

    And I sat there measuring my life

    in sips and seconds,

    wondering when stillness

    started feeling heavier

    than motion ever did.

  • I Can’t Outrun Myself

    I’ve tried—

    God, I’ve tried—

    to outrun the parts of me

    that keep dragging me back

    into the places I swore I’d never return to.

    I’ve run until my lungs burned,

    until my thoughts blurred,

    until the world around me felt

    farther away than my own heartbeat.

    But no matter how fast I go,

    no matter how far I push,

    I always find myself

    waiting at the finish line.

    I can’t outrun myself.

    Not the memories I buried in shallow graves,

    not the habits that linger like ghosts,

    not the ache that rises

    when the night gets too quiet

    and the truth gets too loud.

    I keep hoping distance will save me—

    that miles will become medicine,

    that new places will give me new skin.

    But I carry the same bones,

    the same bruises,

    the same soft, stubborn heart

    that refuses to forget.

    Some days I feel like two people—

    the one who wants to heal

    and the one who keeps sabotaging the healing,

    locked in an endless chase

    around the ruins of who I used to be.

    But maybe the answer

    isn’t running.

    Maybe it’s stopping long enough

    to look myself in the eyes

    and say,

    I’m still here.

    I’m still trying.

    I’m still worth saving.

    I can’t outrun myself—

    but maybe

    I can learn to walk beside her.