When resentment rides high
but emotions won’t grow,
I feel everything
and nothing
in the same breath.
Anger sharpens its teeth,
paces my ribs,
while feeling stays stunted—
rootbound,
afraid of the light.
I want to care louder.
I want to rage cleaner.
Instead I exist in this in-between
where hurt ferments
but never transforms.
It’s exhausting—
carrying so much weight
with nowhere for it to bloom.
Just bitterness circling itself,
calling that motion
progress.
You only smile like that
when you’re drinkin—
that loose, half-forgotten grin
that shows up
after the edges blur.
It’s not happiness.
It’s relief pretending to be joy.
A borrowed light
that flickers just long enough
to make everyone believe you’re okay.
Your eyes give it away.
They don’t soften—
they drift.
Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself
and left the rest behind to cope.
I’ve seen that smile disappear
as fast as it arrives,
leave you emptier than before,
like laughter echoing in a room
no one stays in.
You wear it well, though.
Convincing.
Almost beautiful.
The kind of smile that makes people think
the problem is solved.
But I know better.
That smile only shows up
when the ache is muted,
when the truth is diluted,
when feeling less
feels safer
than feeling everything.
And when the glass is empty,
so is the room.
I rolled them 7’s
with nothing to lose,
the table cold,
the night mean,
and luck looking at me sideways
like it knew exactly who I was.
This ain’t no place
for the weary kind —
not for hearts that bruise easy,
not for hands that shake
when the stakes get high.
Out here, pain is currency,
and everyone’s broke
before the first drink hits the glass.
I’ve gambled with ghosts,
traded my future for a flicker,
dared the darkness
to take its best shot.
And every time,
the world leans in close
and whispers through its teeth,
you sure you’re built for this?
But I keep rolling,
keep breathing through the smoke,
keep standing in rooms
that were never meant to soften for me.
Because somewhere in the rubble
of all I’ve survived,
there’s a fire that won’t burn out,
a stubbornness that refuses
to bow to the night.
I rolled them 7’s
with nothing to lose —
and maybe that’s the trick of it:
when the world wants you broken,
staying on your feet
is the boldest bet you’ll ever make.
I don’t even know where to start tonight.
Everything feels too loud and too heavy, like the whole fucking world is pressing down on my chest and I’m supposed to just breathe through it.
I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.
I’m tired of acting like I fit anywhere, like I’m some puzzle piece with a place waiting for me. Most days it feels like I’m forcing myself into corners that were never meant for me.
There’s this anger inside me I can’t explain—
anger at the world, at myself, at everything I can’t control.
It sits under my skin, buzzing, burning, making me want to scream just to hear something break besides me.
And underneath the anger?
I think there’s just exhaustion.
A deep, bone-level tiredness from trying so hard for so long.
Trying to be okay.
Trying to care.
Trying to convince myself I belong somewhere, anywhere.
Tonight I don’t have answers.
I don’t have hope or clarity or some neat lesson to wrap around this pain.
I just have honesty—
and the honesty is that it hurts.
And I’m still here, somehow, sitting in it, writing it out because something in me refuses to let this be the final word.
Maybe tomorrow will feel different.
Maybe it won’t.
But right now, this is where I am—
not pretending, not polished, just me trying to breathe through the weight.
I’m done being the monster in a story
I never wrote.
I’m done carrying the weight
of every broken thing
like it cracked because I breathed wrong.
I’m not the villain
just because I’m tired.
Just because I bleed quietly.
Just because I stopped pretending
the hurt was “character building.”
I’m not the reason people leave—
they just didn’t want to stay
in a world that didn’t revolve around them.
They called my pain “too much”
because it couldn’t be fixed
with a hug or a quote or a Bible verse.
I’m not the poison.
I’m the aftermath.
The proof that someone else’s damage
landed on me first.
I am not cold—
I just learned the hard way
that warmth gets taken from people like me
without anyone noticing the theft.
So no—
I’m not the villain.
I’m the one who crawled through the ashes,
patched the wounds myself,
and still got blamed
for starting the fire.
If that makes me hard,
if that makes me bitter,
if that makes me “difficult”—
Then good.
Let the ones who broke me
choke on their version of the story.
I’m done apologizing
for surviving a war they never saw.
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.
My body doesn’t trust the quiet.
Even silence hums like danger.
Every creak, every breath,
feels like the start of something breaking.
My heart sprints with no finish line,
my hands forget how to rest.
It’s not that I’m afraid of dying—
I’m afraid of feeling this forever.
The world moves in slow motion,
but my thoughts race ahead,
building fires where there’s only smoke,
seeing ghosts in harmless shadows.
I tell myself I’m safe,
but my pulse calls me a liar.
There’s no off switch,
only exhaustion wearing my name.
Still, I breathe—
even if it’s shallow, even if it shakes.
I remind myself:
this is just my body trying to protect me,
even when there’s nothing left to run from.
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.
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.
It’s more than just the cut.
It’s the moment before it —
when the world feels too heavy to hold
and your own skin feels like a cage.
It’s the silence that builds inside your chest,
the scream you never let out,
the ache you can’t name
that demands to be seen somehow.
People see scars and think they know the story.
But they don’t see the nights you fought it.
The times you cried yourself to sleep and woke up still fighting.
The way you learned to smile so no one would ask questions.
It’s not about wanting to die —
it’s about not knowing how to live
with the weight you carry.
And maybe one day,
you’ll look at those scars and see something different.
Not shame. Not weakness.
But proof —
that you survived every version of yourself
that thought you couldn’t.
Because it’s more than just the cut.
It’s the healing that came after,
the courage it took to stay,
and the quiet strength of a heart
that refused to stop beating
even when it wanted to.
Through the Fog 