Through the Fog

Tag: silent suffering

  • The Things I Don’t Say

    There are things

    I don’t say out loud—

    not because I don’t feel them,

    but because once words exist

    outside of me,

    they become harder

    to survive.

    So I keep them buried.

    The anger

    that never fully leaves.

    The loneliness

    that shows up

    even in crowded rooms.

    The fear

    that maybe I’ve spent so long

    pretending to be okay

    I forgot how to actually be it.

    People think silence

    means peace.

    They don’t realize

    silence can also mean

    containment.

    A dam holding back

    everything

    I don’t trust myself

    to release.

    Because I know

    what happens

    when pain spills over.

    How quickly

    it can ruin a moment,

    a relationship,

    an entire version

    of yourself.

    So I swallow it.

    Turn it inward.

    Carry it quietly

    until it becomes

    part of my posture.

    And still—

    some part of me

    wants to be understood.

    Not fixed.

    Not rescued.

    Just seen

    without having to translate

    every wound

    into something easier

    for other people to hold.

    Maybe that’s why I write.

    Because paper

    doesn’t flinch.

    And poems

    don’t ask me

    to make the truth

    sound prettier

    than it is.

  • You’re Married to a Nightmare

    You don’t call it that.

    Not out loud.

    You call it stress,

    a rough patch,

    something every couple goes through

    if they just try hard enough.

    Because nightmares

    aren’t supposed to wear a ring,

    aren’t supposed to sit across from you

    at the same table

    and ask how your day was

    like everything is fine.

    But this one does.

    It smiles

    when people are watching.

    Speaks gently

    in rooms that echo.

    Knows exactly

    how to look like love

    from a distance.

    And you—

    you’ve learned the choreography.

    When to stay quiet.

    When to soften.

    When to shrink yourself

    just enough

    to keep the peace

    from breaking open.

    You measure your words

    like they could detonate.

    You swallow reactions

    before they reach your mouth.

    You become careful

    in ways that don’t feel like you anymore.

    And still—

    it’s never quite enough.

    There’s always a shift.

    A tone.

    A silence

    that stretches too long.

    Something small

    that turns into something bigger

    before you can stop it.

    So you adjust again.

    Call it compromise.

    Call it patience.

    Call it love.

    Anything

    but what it feels like

    when the lights go out

    and you’re left alone

    with the version of this

    no one else sees.

    Because how do you explain

    that the person

    you promised forever to

    is the same one

    you brace yourself for?

    How do you leave

    something that still

    looks like a life

    from the outside?

    So you stay.

    Not because it’s easy—

    but because it’s complicated,

    and untangling it

    feels heavier

    than carrying it.

    But deep down,

    beneath all the reasons

    you’ve built to justify it—

    you know.

    Love isn’t supposed

    to feel like survival.