I dug my own grave
one bad decision at a time—
not all at once,
not dramatically,
just slowly enough
to call it living.
A drink here.
A lie there.
Another thing
I told myself
I’d fix tomorrow.
I kept throwing dirt
over warning signs,
burying the parts of me
that knew better,
that tried to speak up
before everything got this deep.
But I didn’t listen.
I called it coping.
Called it survival.
Called it anything
except what it was—
self-destruction
with softer language.
And now I stand here
looking down
at the hole I made,
realizing
no one pushed me into it.
That’s the hardest part.
Not the damage.
Not the regret.
The knowing.
Knowing my own hands
built this.
Knowing I became
the thing
I kept trying to outrun.
But maybe
that’s where change starts—
not in pretending
I’m innocent,
not in blaming the world
for every scar I carry—
but in finally
putting the shovel down.
Because if I dug this grave,
maybe I can still
climb out of it too.
Through the Fog 