Through the Fog

Tag: regret

  • I Hate Me

    I hate me.

    There.

    No metaphor.

    No pretty way

    to make it easier to read.

    Some days

    I genuinely cannot stand

    the person inside my skin.

    I hate the decisions

    I knew were wrong

    while I was making them.

    The people I hurt.

    The people I let hurt me.

    The way I can see

    every red flag from a mile away

    and still walk toward it

    like maybe this time

    red means welcome.

    I hate how much

    I fucking feel.

    How one word

    can ruin my day.

    How silence

    can turn into rejection

    before I even know the truth.

    How my mind

    can take something small

    and drag it through

    every wound I’ve ever had

    until suddenly

    I’m bleeding from all of them.

    I hate that I know better

    and don’t always do better.

    That I apologize

    then repeat myself.

    That I want peace

    but sometimes

    I’m the one

    setting everything on fire.

    And God—

    I hate looking backward.

    Because hindsight

    makes everything obvious.

    Every exit I ignored.

    Every boundary I crossed.

    Every moment

    I abandoned myself

    just to keep someone else

    from leaving.

    People tell you

    to love yourself.

    Like it’s easy.

    Like you can stand

    in front of a mirror,

    say something kind,

    and undo years

    of believing

    you’re the problem.

    I’m not there yet.

    Some days

    forgiveness feels impossible.

    But maybe

    I don’t have to love myself

    today.

    Maybe I just have to stop

    being cruel to the person

    who already hurts.

    Maybe I can look at her

    without calling her worthless.

    Maybe I can admit

    she fucked up

    without deciding

    she is a fuckup.

    Because underneath

    everything I hate—

    she’s still trying.

    Still waking up.

    Still carrying consequences

    and somehow believing

    she might become better

    than the choices behind her.

    So yeah—

    sometimes

    I hate me.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if hatred is just another wound

    I’ve mistaken

    for the truth.

    And maybe someday

    I won’t look at myself

    and see everything

    I wish I could erase.

    Maybe I’ll see someone

    who survived being

    her own worst enemy

    and finally learned

    how to stop fighting herself.

  • Save Your Time While It’s Cheap

    Save your time

    while it’s cheap—

    before regret

    puts interest on it.

    Before someday

    becomes five years ago

    and you’re standing there

    wondering how the hell

    you let that much life

    get away from you.

    I spent mine

    like I had an endless supply.

    On people

    who couldn’t decide

    if they wanted me.

    On arguments

    that changed nothing.

    On proving myself

    to people

    who had already decided

    who I was.

    I wasted whole nights

    replaying conversations

    that were over.

    Whole mornings

    recovering from choices

    I knew better than to make.

    Whole years

    waiting for something

    to change

    while doing everything possible

    to stay exactly where I was.

    Time felt cheap then.

    Another weekend.

    Another drink.

    Another chance.

    Another I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

    Tomorrow seemed endless

    until I started noticing

    how many of them

    were behind me.

    That’s the fucking trick.

    You never know

    what your time costs

    while you’re spending it.

    You find out later—

    when someone is gone.

    When the opportunity closes.

    When you finally become ready

    for a life

    that no longer exists.

    And suddenly

    you’d pay anything

    for one ordinary afternoon

    you barely noticed

    while you had it.

    So save your time

    while it’s cheap.

    Spend it

    on people who stay.

    On mornings

    you’ll remember.

    On becoming someone

    you don’t constantly

    need to escape from.

    Say what matters.

    Leave what hurts.

    Love while it’s here.

    Start before you’re ready.

    Because eventually

    time gets expensive.

    And regret

    has never given

    a fucking refund.

  • Wasted Time

    I used to think

    I wasted years.

    On the wrong people.

    The wrong choices.

    The wrong version

    of myself.

    I counted birthdays

    I barely remember.

    Conversations

    that led nowhere.

    Dreams

    I kept postponing

    until they forgot my name.

    I called it

    wasted time.

    But time

    doesn’t disappear.

    It leaves something behind.

    A scar

    that taught me

    where not to bleed.

    A goodbye

    that taught me

    what staying should feel like.

    A mistake

    I stopped repeating.

    Even the years

    I spent lost

    were years

    I learned the sound

    of my own footsteps.

    Would I take them back?

    Some days.

    Some days

    I’d erase entire chapters

    if I could.

    But then I’d lose

    the lessons,

    the strength,

    the quiet understanding

    that came only

    because I lived through them.

    Maybe time

    is only wasted

    if it leaves you unchanged.

    And I didn’t stay

    the same.

    I became someone

    who knows

    that healing

    takes longer

    than hurting.

    That leaving

    can be an act of love.

    That starting over

    isn’t failure—

    it’s faith.

    So maybe

    I didn’t waste my time.

    Maybe I spent it

    becoming someone

    I couldn’t have been

    any other way.

  • Borrowed Happiness

    I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour,

    where the edges blurred

    and the ache softened just enough

    to feel like relief.

    For a moment, I didn’t have to carry

    the full weight of myself.

    Laughter came easier,

    memories felt kinder,

    and the world loosened its grip.

    In that fog, pain was distant—

    muted, negotiable,

    something I could outrun

    with another swallow,

    another borrowed sense of peace.

    I mistook numbness for healing

    and silence for rest.

    But heaven knows I’m miserable now.

    Clear-headed and heavy,

    left alone with everything

    I tried not to feel.

    The truth waits patiently

    for sobriety,

    for morning light,

    for the moment pretending runs out.

    There’s no romance in the aftermath—

    only the echo of what I avoided

    and the knowing that happiness

    built on escape

    never survives the night.

    I was happy for an hour, yes.

    But misery has a longer memory.

    And now I’m standing in it,

    fully awake,

    trying to learn how to live

    without needing to disappear

    to feel okay.

  • Regret is My Constant Companion

    Regret walks beside me

    like a shadow that never learned

    how to leave when the sun comes up.

    It knows my footsteps,

    matches my breathing,

    whispers the names of moments

    I wish I could touch again

    with gentler hands.

    I carry whole conversations

    that never happened,

    apologies folded small

    inside my chest,

    waiting for a door

    that doesn’t exist anymore.

    Sometimes regret is loud—

    a storm of what if

    crashing against the ribs

    until sleep feels impossible.

    Sometimes it is quiet,

    just a chair pulled out

    at the table of memory,

    sitting across from me

    without speaking,

    and somehow saying everything.

    I used to think regret

    was punishment—

    proof that I had ruined

    the only life I was given.

    But maybe regret is only love

    with nowhere left to go.

    Maybe it stays

    because something in me

    still cares enough

    to wish I had chosen

    more gently.

    And if that’s true,

    then regret is not my enemy.

    It is the part of my heart

    that refuses to become careless.

    The part that still believes

    even broken people

    can learn how to hold the world

    without hurting it.

    And maybe one day

    regret will loosen its grip,

    not because the past changed,

    but because I finally did—

    soft enough

    to forgive the person

    who didn’t know

    how to be me yet.