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.
Through the Fog 