Story of my life—
always halfway somewhere.
Half over it.
Half still hoping.
Half healed.
Half wrecked.
Too aware
of what’s wrong
and somehow
still repeating it.
I leave doors cracked
for people
who already walked out.
Replay conversations
like maybe this time
the ending changes.
Say I’m done
while still checking
for signs
I shouldn’t care about.
I call it moving on
when really
I’m just dragging
old versions of pain
into new rooms.
I get good
at surviving things
I should’ve never
had to survive.
Good at smiling
through exhaustion.
Good at saying
“I’m fine”
with a straight face.
Good at making chaos
look manageable.
Story of my life—
wanting softness
but wearing armor.
Wanting peace
while feeding the thoughts
that steal it.
Wanting to be loved
without knowing
what to do
when someone gets close enough
to actually try.
But somehow—
despite all of it—
I’m still here.
Still trying.
Still becoming
something other than
the worst chapters.
Maybe that’s the story too.
Through the Fog 