Sleepless nights
stretch out like highways—
quiet, endless,
full of thoughts I wish
would leave me alone.
I lie awake
counting the things I can’t fix,
listening to the clock
drag its feet,
feeling the weight of every memory
that refuses to fade.
And somewhere between midnight
and whatever comes after,
I start to wonder
if sleep is avoiding me—
or if I’m avoiding myself.
It’s the echo of every truth you never dared to speak,
a weight that settles in the hollow of your chest
like something carved from grief
and sharpened by silence.
It crawls along the inside of your skull,
slow and deliberate,
leaving claw marks in places
you swore nothing could reach.
It fills the rooms of your mind
with a stillness so absolute
it feels like a warning.
Breathing becomes a memory,
a thing you used to know how to do
before this presence learned your shape
and wrapped itself around you
with the cold precision
of something that doesn’t need to rush.
This isn’t a blanket—
it’s a shroud.
It doesn’t warm;
it constricts.
It tightens until your pulse forgets its rhythm
and your ribs forget their purpose.
It settles deeper than fear could ever go,
into the marrow,
into the places no light has touched in years.
You can’t see it—
that’s the cruel part.
It hides just beneath the threshold of vision,
drowning you in a darkness
that feels personal,
intentional,
intimate.
And somehow,
it knows you’ll let it stay.
I called, but there was no answer—
just the hollow ring
of my own hope bouncing back at me.
The line stayed open,
silent as an empty room
where your name still hangs in the air.
I rehearsed what I would’ve said,
every apology, every truth,
but silence swallowed them whole.
Maybe you were busy living,
or maybe you were learning
how to forget the sound of my voice.
I let the phone fall to my side,
realizing some distances
aren’t measured in miles—
they’re measured in unanswered calls.
Communication breaks me open
in ways I don’t always survive.
It drags the truth out of the corners
I’ve kept in shadow,
forces me to name the things
I swore I’d never admit aloud.
I’ve spent years learning
how to make my silence look graceful—
how to swallow storms,
how to smile with a mouth full of grief,
how to carry secrets
without letting the weight show.
But silence is a grave,
and I’ve buried too many versions of myself
trying to keep the peace.
Trying to keep people.
Trying to keep from falling apart
in front of the wrong eyes.
So when you ask me what’s wrong,
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want to tell you,
but because I don’t know
how to hand you the truth
without bleeding in the process.
Communication isn’t easy for people like me—
people who learned to fear their own voice,
who were taught that honesty
was the fastest way to lose someone.
People who mistake vulnerability
for danger.
But still—
I try.
I open my mouth even when it trembles.
I let the words come out
messy, fractured, imperfect,
hoping you’ll stay long enough
to understand the quiet parts too.
Because even though communication
breaks me open,
I’m tired of sealing myself shut.
I’m tired of burying what I feel
and calling it strength.
Maybe this is what growth looks like—
letting my truth exist
outside of my own head,
even if my voice cracks on the way out.
Maybe this is how I rise
from all the graves I dug for myself.
Through the Fog 