Through the Fog

Tag: toxic love

  • 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.

  • Small Rooms

    You never raised your voice

    high enough

    for the world to hear.

    That was the first thing

    that made it hard to name.

    Control didn’t arrive

    as shouting or slammed doors—

    it came softly,

    wrapped in concern,

    dressed like love

    that just wanted to keep me safe.

    You asked where I was going

    as if worry lived in the question.

    You read my silence

    like permission.

    You slowly folded my world smaller

    until it fit neatly

    inside your comfort.

    I told myself

    this is what devotion looks like.

    This is what commitment asks for.

    This is what good partners do—

    they adjust,

    they soften,

    they stop needing so much space.

    So I became quiet

    in places that once felt bright.

    Careful with laughter.

    Careful with friends.

    Careful with any version of myself

    that didn’t revolve around you.

    The strangest part

    is how invisible it was.

    No bruises.

    No broken glass.

    Just the slow disappearance

    of a woman

    who used to feel like sky.

    And you called it love.

    Maybe part of you

    believed that.

    Maybe control

    was the only language

    you were ever taught

    to speak.

    But love

    should not feel

    like permission

    I have to earn.

    It should not shrink

    when I grow.

    It should not tremble

    when I stand up straight

    and take a full breath.

    I know that now.

    Because the day I noticed

    how small the room had become

    was the day a window

    finally appeared.

    Not open—

    just visible.

    And sometimes

    freedom begins

    that quietly.

    With the simple,

    dangerous thought:

    I was never meant

    to live

    this small.