Through the Fog

Tag: self-awareness

  • Story of My Life

    Story of my life—

    always halfway somewhere.

    Half over it.

    Half still hoping.

    Half healed.

    Half wrecked.

    Too aware

    of what’s wrong

    and somehow

    still repeating it.

    I leave doors cracked

    for people

    who already walked out.

    Replay conversations

    like maybe this time

    the ending changes.

    Say I’m done

    while still checking

    for signs

    I shouldn’t care about.

    I call it moving on

    when really

    I’m just dragging

    old versions of pain

    into new rooms.

    I get good

    at surviving things

    I should’ve never

    had to survive.

    Good at smiling

    through exhaustion.

    Good at saying

    “I’m fine”

    with a straight face.

    Good at making chaos

    look manageable.

    Story of my life—

    wanting softness

    but wearing armor.

    Wanting peace

    while feeding the thoughts

    that steal it.

    Wanting to be loved

    without knowing

    what to do

    when someone gets close enough

    to actually try.

    But somehow—

    despite all of it—

    I’m still here.

    Still trying.

    Still becoming

    something other than

    the worst chapters.

    Maybe that’s the story too.

  • P.O.S

    If I’m a piece of shit,

    there’s a reason why—

    people don’t just wake up

    one day

    already hardened,

    already angry,

    already convinced

    they’re something disposable.

    Something happened.

    Maybe not all at once.

    Maybe slowly—

    in the ways I learned

    to expect disappointment,

    to keep my guard up,

    to strike first

    before something else

    could hurt me.

    Maybe I got tired

    of being soft

    in places

    that treated softness

    like weakness.

    Maybe I became difficult

    because easy

    kept getting destroyed.

    That doesn’t excuse everything.

    I know that.

    I know I’ve hurt people.

    Know I’ve said things

    I can’t take back,

    become someone

    I barely recognize

    when the worst parts of me

    take over.

    But I’m tired

    of acting like pain

    appears out of nowhere.

    Like damage

    doesn’t leave fingerprints.

    Because nobody asks

    what made me this way.

    They just point

    at what I became.

    And maybe

    I am rough around the edges.

    Maybe I carry too much anger,

    too much regret,

    too many things

    I never learned

    how to put down.

    But underneath all of it—

    under the bitterness,

    the defense,

    the self-destruction—

    there’s still a person here

    trying to understand

    how they turned into someone

    they never meant to be.

    So if I’m a piece of shit—

    there’s a reason why.

    And maybe

    understanding that reason

    is the first step

    toward becoming

    something else.

  • It’s a Fucking Problem

    I keep saying it’s nothing—

    just a phase,

    just stress,

    just something I’ll get a handle on

    when things slow down.

    But things don’t slow down.

    They pile up.

    And I keep reaching

    for the same relief—

    the same distraction,

    the same escape

    that works just enough

    to keep me from dealing with it.

    Until it doesn’t.

    Until I’m sitting there

    staring at the mess

    I swore I wasn’t making,

    wondering how it got this far

    without me noticing.

    Or maybe I did notice.

    Maybe I just didn’t want

    to call it what it is.

    Because calling it something real

    means I have to face it.

    Means I can’t pretend

    it’s under control,

    can’t keep telling myself

    I’ll fix it tomorrow.

    But tomorrow

    keeps moving.

    And I keep staying

    right here—

    in the middle of something

    that’s starting to look a lot like

    it’s not going to fix itself.

    So yeah—

    it’s a fucking problem.

    Not because someone else said so.

    Not because it looks bad

    from the outside.

    But because I feel it—

    in the way it pulls at me,

    in the way it keeps showing up,

    in the way I keep choosing it

    even when I know better.

    And maybe that’s where it starts—

    not fixing it,

    not solving it all at once—

    just finally

    telling the truth

    about what it is.

  • 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.