Through the Fog

Tag: unspoken truth

  • Just Blowin’ Smoke

    You say it easy—

    like truth don’t weigh nothin’,

    like words don’t stick

    to the ribs of a person

    long after you leave.

    Just blowin’ smoke,

    you laugh—

    like that makes it lighter,

    like it don’t drift back down

    and settle in my lungs.

    I’ve heard that tone before—

    half-real, half-running,

    truth wrapped in a joke

    so you don’t have to own it.

    You speak in maybes,

    in almosts,

    in things that sound close enough

    to mean something

    but never land hard enough

    to hold.

    And I keep standin’ there

    tryin’ to read through the haze,

    wonderin’ what part of you

    is real

    and what part’s just

    habit.

    Because smoke looks beautiful

    when it catches the light—

    soft, shapeless,

    easy to mistake

    for somethin’ worth holdin’.

    But it don’t stay.

    It don’t answer.

    It don’t choose.

    It just fades—

    leavin’ behind

    the quiet taste

    of everything

    you never meant.

  • The Shape of Silence

    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.