There’s a ghost in the mirror still haunting me.
A version of myself I thought I buried
beneath all the nights I swore I’d start over,
all the mornings I promised I’d be different.
She watches me from behind the glass,
eyes hollow with the things I never said,
jaw tight with all the things I swallowed
just to make it through another day.
She knows every secret.
Every relapse, every regret,
every time I tried to outrun the truth
and tripped over the pieces I left behind.
I wipe the mirror,
but she doesn’t fade.
Some ghosts don’t rattle chains—
they whisper your name
in the quiet moments when no one’s looking,
reminding you of who you were
and who you’re still afraid of becoming.
And maybe she isn’t here to scare me.
Maybe she’s waiting
for me to finally look her in the eyes
and say,
I’m still here too.
Through the Fog 