Through the Fog

Tag: Self Worth

  • Maybe It’s My Fault

    Maybe it’s my fault

    for not giving you

    enough attention.

    Maybe love is measured

    in minutes I missed,

    in texts I didn’t send fast enough,

    in the quiet times

    I needed for myself

    that you heard as absence.

    Maybe if I had been

    softer,

    quieter,

    smaller—

    you wouldn’t have felt

    so far away.

    I’ve turned this question

    over and over

    in my hands,

    like something sharp

    I keep choosing

    to hold.

    Because blame

    is easier to carry

    than truth.

    Truth asks harder things—

    like whether love

    should require

    my constant proving.

    Like whether care

    should feel

    like a test

    I’m always failing.

    Maybe I did miss moments.

    Maybe I wasn’t perfect.

    Maybe I couldn’t give

    everything

    you wanted.

    But love

    isn’t supposed

    to be starvation

    for one person

    and sacrifice

    for the other.

    Love should survive

    ordinary silence.

    It should breathe

    without permission.

    It should not crumble

    the moment

    I turn inward

    to find myself.

    So maybe

    it isn’t my fault

    after all.

    Maybe the truth

    is quieter

    and harder

    to accept—

    that I was trying

    to love you

    with a whole heart

    while slowly

    forgetting

    to love myself.

    And maybe healing

    begins

    the moment

    I stop asking

    what I did wrong

    and start asking

    why I believed

    I had to disappear

    to be loved.

  • Drawing Straws

    I keep drawing straws—

    each one shorter than the last,

    like fate is shaving inches

    off my hope

    with careful hands.

    I tell myself it’s random.

    Chance.

    Bad timing.

    A season that just won’t turn.

    But the pile at my feet

    says otherwise.

    Every time I reach in,

    I already know

    what my fingers will find—

    the splintered end,

    the one that means

    not this time,

    not for you,

    try again with less to stand on.

    I’ve learned to smile

    before anyone can pity me.

    Learned to nod

    like I expected it.

    Like disappointment

    and I have a private agreement

    to meet here.

    It’s strange

    how a person can grow smaller

    without anyone noticing—

    how hope can shrink

    quietly,

    like a wick burning low

    in a room no one enters anymore.

    Still, I keep reaching.

    Because somewhere inside me

    there’s a stubborn pulse

    that refuses to believe

    this is the only ending available.

    Maybe one day

    I’ll draw a long one—

    smooth, untouched,

    ridiculous in its generosity.

    Or maybe

    the miracle won’t be the straw at all.

    Maybe it will be the moment

    I stop measuring my worth

    by what I pull from a handful

    of borrowed luck.

    Maybe it will be

    when I finally let go of the cup,

    open my palm,

    and decide

    I was never meant

    to gamble

    for a life

    that was already mine.

  • Wildfire

    Maybe it’s just the way

    your heart leans toward comfort—

    toward quiet things,

    easy truths,

    places that don’t feel like risk

    or revelation.

    And that’s all right.

    Not every soul

    is meant to wander into the flames,

    not every pair of hands

    is steady enough

    to hold something burning.

    Some hearts want gentle—

    the kind of calm

    that doesn’t shake their edges,

    the kind of love

    that never asks them

    to grow,

    to change,

    to rise beyond who they were yesterday.

    Some hearts

    weren’t made

    to love a wildfire—

    a woman who loves fiercely,

    breaks honestly,

    and glows even

    in her darkest moments.

    A wildfire is a force—

    unapologetic,

    uncontained,

    the kind of heat

    that leaves you touched forever

    even if you only stood close

    for a moment.

    She doesn’t smolder quietly.

    She burns bright

    because she has to,

    because something in her

    was never meant

    to be small.

    And if you could not stay—

    if the fire felt too much,

    too honest,

    too alive—

    that’s all right.

    Not every story

    is written for the flames.

    But remember this:

    what you left behind

    will still rise,

    still blaze,

    still turn her own scars

    into something golden.

    Because that’s what fire does.

    It survives,

    it transforms,

    it becomes.