Through the Fog

Tag: life

  • I’m Thinking Again

    Photo Credit: Aron Visuals

    I think and I think and I think.

    Until the thoughts start thinking me.

    It’s like being trapped in a room with my own mind — the walls covered in questions, the air thick with everything I’ve ever done wrong. I keep trying to find the one thought that will unlock the door, the one truth that will make it all make sense. But every time I get close, the door moves.

    Thinking feels productive until it starts to hurt. Until it becomes a loop — an endless replay of memories, mistakes, what-ifs, and could-have-beens. I convince myself that if I analyze it just a little longer, I’ll figure out who I am, or why I keep ending up here. But the more I think, the less I feel. The more I search, the more lost I become.

    People say “get out of your head” like it’s easy. Like it isn’t a maze with no map.

    They don’t see the noise behind my silence — the war waged between logic and emotion, guilt and grace.

    I think and I think and I think, until my thoughts start to drown me. Until I can’t tell the difference between reflection and self-destruction.

    And maybe that’s the cruelest part — knowing that my mind is both the weapon and the wound.

  • Nothing Left to Fix

    I don’t want to be saved.

    Not tonight.

    Not by hope,

    not by promises that sound like recycled air.

    I’m not broken in a way

    that healing can touch.

    I’m worn down,

    thinned out,

    tired in a way sleep can’t reach.

    People say “keep fighting”

    like the bleeding hasn’t already happened.

    Like there’s some victory in dragging myself

    through another day

    that feels exactly like the last one.

    I don’t want answers.

    I don’t want light.

    I just want the noise in my head

    to stop scraping against my thoughts.

    If numbness is all I get,

    I’ll take it.

    At least it doesn’t hurt

    to feel nothing.

    And maybe someday,

    when the world isn’t this heavy,

    I’ll want more than breathing.

    But tonight—

    I’m just here.

    Not living.

    Not dying.

    Just here.

  • The Promise of Fall

    Photo Credit: Marko Blažević

    And when the leaves begin to change,

    I’ll be there

    by the time they start to fall.

    Not early, not late—

    just in that quiet moment

    when the world exhales,

    and summer finally lets go.

    I’ll return like a ghost

    you almost stopped waiting for,

    carrying the kind of silence

    that only comes from distance.

    Maybe you won’t recognize me at first—

    grief weathers people

    the way autumn weathers trees.

    But I’ll know you,

    by the way your eyes still soften

    when the wind carries something familiar.

    And even if nothing is the same,

    even if the cold moves in too fast,

    I’ll still keep my promise—

    to show up

    right before everything fades.

  • Kerosene

    I’m throwing kerosene

    on everything I love

    because it hurts less to watch it burn

    than to wait for it to leave.

    I don’t destroy things out of anger—

    I do it because I already know the ending,

    and I’d rather be the one holding the match

    than the one left in the smoke.

    There’s a sick kind of peace

    in turning love into ash.

    No more hoping,

    no more reaching,

    no more waiting for the floor to fall out.

    I don’t trust softness.

    I don’t trust survival.

    I only trust the fire—

    it never pretends to stay.

    It just devours everything.

    So I burn it all down

    before it can ruin me,

    and the worst part is:

    the only thing that ever really turns to ash

    is me. The fire wins.

  • I Wish You Were Here

    I wish you were here—

    not just in memory,

    not in dreams that vanish with the dawn,

    but here, breathing beside me.

    The nights are longer without you.

    The walls remember your laughter,

    but they don’t echo it right anymore.

    I keep reaching for a ghost

    that won’t reach back.

    Some days, I almost hear your voice,

    soft as wind against my skin,

    and I turn too quickly,

    forgetting—

    it’s just the world moving on without you.

    You should’ve seen the sunrise today.

    It broke through the clouds like hope

    pretending to be light.

    I stood there wishing

    you could’ve felt it too.

    I wish you were here—

    not because I need saving,

    but because some moments

    are too heavy to hold alone.

  • Words, They Always Win

    Photo Credit:Maxime Gilbert

    I’ll be so fucking rude,

    because softness never saved me.

    You’ll twist my quiet into guilt,

    call it proof that I don’t care.

    Words, they always win,

    but I know I’ll lose—

    every argument ends

    with me swallowing apologies

    for things I didn’t do.

    You speak like thunder,

    and I break like glass.

    My voice shakes,

    so I let silence speak for me,

    but even silence gets misheard.

    I’m tired of explaining pain

    to people who caused it.

    Tired of pretending I’m fine

    just so no one feels uncomfortable.

    Maybe I’m the villain

    in stories you tell to sleep at night,

    but I know what it costs

    to stay kind in a world

    that only listens when you scream.

    So tonight I’ll be loud,

    I’ll be wrong,

    I’ll be everything you said I shouldn’t—

    and maybe then,

    finally,

    I’ll win something back.

  • Rage

    Photo Credit:Kiara Kulikova

    I want to scream until the stars fall,

    until the sky cracks under the weight of my name.

    I’m tired of being calm,

    tired of pretending I don’t feel the storm.

    Let me burn—

    let me rip the silence wide open.

    Every bottled-up thought,

    every swallowed scream,

    every “it’s fine” I choked on—

    I want it out.

    Let me rage,

    wild and unpretty,

    until my chest stops shaking

    and I can breathe again.

  • Drain Me

    Photo Credit: Europeana

    I thought about drinking the end,

    letting it burn its way through the ache,

    turning pain into silence.

    But somewhere between thought and act,

    a voice whispered—not yet.

    A trembling sound, small but alive,

    saying maybe there’s still a sunrise

    I haven’t seen.

    I get so tired of that voice—

    the voice of reason,

    always telling me there’s more to live for,

    a glimmer of hope I don’t want to think about.

    The world feels heavy,

    pressing against my ribs,

    reminding me I’m still here.

    And I am—

    shaking, breaking,

    breathing anyway.

    I don’t want to die.

    I just want the pain to stop

    before it swallows me whole.

  • Don’t Let Me Down

    You say you won’t let me down.

    And I almost believe you.

    Because your voice sounds steady, your words sound like safety, and for a moment I forget what disappointment feels like.

    But I’ve heard those promises before — soft and certain, dripping from lips that never meant to stay. People promise things they can’t keep, not because they want to hurt you, but because they don’t know how deep the hurt already runs.

    You say you won’t let me down, but life has a way of proving otherwise.

    It’s not always betrayal that breaks me — sometimes it’s the quiet absence, the unanswered message, the way someone’s warmth fades without warning.

    I’ve learned that love doesn’t always mean safety, and trust doesn’t always mean forever. Sometimes “I won’t let you down” just means “I’ll try, until I can’t anymore.”

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe the point isn’t to find someone who never lets me down — maybe it’s to learn how to stand up on my own when they do.

    Still, there’s a part of me that wants to believe you.

    That fragile, foolish part that hopes this time is different.

    That maybe when you say you won’t let me down… you mean it.

  • Boundaries

    They told me boundaries were healthy,

    but no one warned me they’d feel like loneliness.

    That saying no could echo so loudly

    inside a heart that only ever wanted to be seen.

    I built fences out of survival,

    not pride.

    Each post hammered in with memories

    of what it cost to trust the wrong hands.

    Now, when someone knocks,

    I hesitate.

    Not because I don’t want to open the gate—

    but because I still remember

    how it felt to be left bleeding in the garden.

    They say healing means protecting your peace,

    but sometimes peace looks like distance.

    Sometimes it means loving yourself enough

    to walk away before the breaking starts.

    So if you think I’m cold,

    understand this—

    I am only guarding what’s left.

    And if I keep the door locked,

    it’s not because I don’t care.

    It’s because I finally do.