Through the Fog

Tag: self-awareness

  • I’ve Been Known to Cross Lines

    I’ve been known

    to cross lines—

    not the ones painted on roads,

    but the invisible ones

    people draw around themselves

    and call safety.

    I don’t always see them

    until I’ve already stepped over,

    already said too much,

    felt too deeply,

    stayed too long

    or left too soon.

    They say I blur things—

    boundaries,

    meanings,

    the space between what’s allowed

    and what’s real.

    Maybe I do.

    Maybe I’ve spent too long

    living in places

    where lines kept moving,

    where rules changed

    depending on who was watching.

    So I learned

    to trust instinct

    over permission,

    feeling over distance,

    truth over comfort.

    And yeah—

    sometimes that costs me.

    Sometimes I lose people

    who needed things cleaner,

    clearer,

    easier to define.

    But I was never built

    for neat edges.

    I exist

    in the in-between—

    where things are messy,

    honest,

    alive.

    So if I cross a line,

    it’s not always rebellion.

    Sometimes

    it’s just me

    refusing to pretend

    I don’t feel

    what I feel.

  • The War Was With Myself

    All this time,

    I thought I was fighting the world—

    the people who left,

    the ghosts that stayed,

    the weight that never lifted.

    But the truth is uglier.

    The war was with myself.

    Every battle fought in silence,

    every wound I swore didn’t hurt,

    every night I begged the mirror

    to stop reflecting back a stranger.

    I blamed the world for breaking me,

    but I was the one holding the hammer.

    I kept swinging,

    trying to make sense of the pain,

    trying to carve something worth saving

    out of the wreckage of me.

    And maybe that’s what survival really is—

    not victory,

    not peace,

    just the quiet after the fight,

    when you finally lay your weapon down

    and whisper,

    I’m still here.

  • A Little Too Much

    I’ve been told

    I take my anger out on everyone else,

    like I’m swinging at shadows

    because I’m too afraid

    to hit the truth.

    They say I’ve been drinking too much,

    that my nights blur together

    because it’s easier

    than remembering them clearly.

    That the glass in my hand

    has become the closest thing

    I have to quiet.

    And the worst part is—

    they’re not wrong.

    I see the hurt in their eyes

    when my voice gets sharp,

    when my patience snaps,

    when I become someone

    I promised I’d never be.

    I know they’re reaching for me,

    but half the time

    I’m too far inside myself

    to reach back.

    Some days I don’t even know

    who I’m trying to protect—

    them, or the version of me

    that’s already breaking.

    I don’t drink to forget.

    I drink because remembering

    hurts in ways I can’t explain.

    Because silence echoes,

    and loneliness grows teeth,

    and some nights my chest

    feels too small

    for everything I’ve swallowed.

    I wish I could be better,

    softer,

    easier to love.

    But most days

    I’m just trying to keep myself

    from falling apart in the middle

    of someone else’s arms.

    And I know—

    I know—

    I’m losing pieces of myself

    trying to outrun pain

    that follows me everywhere.

    I just hope one day

    I learn how to stop breaking

    the people who stay.

  • Perceived Abandonment

    It’s strange how loneliness can make you believe you’ve been abandoned, even when no one’s gone anywhere.

    It creeps in quietly — not as an event, but as a feeling.

    A hollow shift inside the chest, a soft whisper that says they don’t care anymore, even when they do.

    I know it’s not true.

    But in the moments when silence stretches too long,

    when messages go unread and days pile up in quiet stacks,

    it feels like proof.

    Proof that I’m too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once.

    It’s the oldest wound — that fear of being left behind.

    Not just by people, but by life itself.

    You start to think maybe everyone else got the map,

    and you were born to wander lost.

    I’ve learned that perceived abandonment isn’t about others leaving.

    It’s about the part of me that still believes love is temporary,

    that care has an expiration date,

    that any warmth will eventually fade.

    So I brace myself for endings that haven’t even begun.

    I pull away before anyone has a chance to.

    And then I call it loneliness, when really it’s just fear —

    the quiet kind that pretends it’s truth.

    But loneliness doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned.

    It means I’m here, still longing, still feeling, still alive enough to miss something.

    And maybe that’s not weakness.

    Maybe that’s the part of me still hoping

    someone will stay long enough to prove my heart wrong.

  • 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.