Through the Fog

Tag: self protection

  • Heart of Stone

    They say I’ve got

    a heart of stone—

    like I woke up this way,

    cold from the beginning,

    untouched by anything

    that ever tried to reach me.

    But stone

    isn’t born hard.

    It becomes that way

    through pressure,

    through weather,

    through years

    of standing in storms

    with no shelter.

    People see the surface

    and stop there.

    They don’t see

    how many times

    I tried to love softly,

    how many times

    I opened my hands

    just to watch

    everything good

    slip through them.

    So I learned.

    Learned how to close off

    before something

    could get close enough

    to ruin me again.

    Learned how to act indifferent,

    how to keep my voice steady,

    how to pretend

    nothing touches me anymore.

    But pretending

    and feeling nothing

    aren’t the same thing.

    Because even stone

    remembers pressure.

    Even stone

    can crack.

    And underneath

    everything hardened in me—

    under the distance,

    the silence,

    the walls I built

    to survive—

    there’s still a heart there.

    Just one

    that got tired

    of bleeding

    every time

    it tried to be soft.

  • Sentimental Bullshit

    Call it sentimental bullshit—

    that soft, overused language

    people reach for

    when something real

    makes them uncomfortable.

    Love.

    Hope.

    Healing.

    Words that get dismissed

    the second they stop being easy.

    Like feeling deeply

    is something to outgrow.

    Like caring too much

    is a flaw

    instead of a risk.

    I’ve tried

    to strip it all down—

    make myself quieter,

    less affected,

    less invested

    in things that don’t stay.

    Told myself

    it’s better this way.

    Cleaner.

    Safer.

    No expectations.

    No disappointment.

    No reason to feel

    anything at all.

    But numb

    isn’t the same

    as strong.

    And pretending

    none of it mattered

    doesn’t make it true.

    Because even now—

    under all the doubt,

    all the cynicism,

    all the ways I’ve tried

    to harden—

    there’s still something there.

    Something stubborn.

    Something that refuses

    to turn into nothing

    just because it got hurt.

    So call it

    sentimental bullshit

    if you need to.

    I know what it is.

    It’s the part of me

    that still believes

    something real

    is worth feeling—

    even if it doesn’t last.

  • Loaded

    Holding to the grip

    of a loaded gun—

    is it protection

    or prophecy?

    My fingers curl

    around the cold promise of control.

    Something solid.

    Something final.

    Something that says

    you won’t hurt me again.

    But control

    can be an illusion

    with teeth.

    Sometimes what feels like safety

    is just fear

    disguised as strength.

    Sometimes what feels like power

    is only pain

    looking for a louder voice.

    Will it save me

    or leave me in the mud?

    Will it guard my heart

    or bury it deeper?

    Because anything held that tightly

    long enough

    starts to shape the hand.

    And I don’t want to become

    the thing

    I’m gripping

    to survive.

    Maybe salvation

    isn’t in the weapon.

    Maybe it’s in loosening

    my fingers—

    choosing to walk away

    before the echo

    decides my future for me.