The cost of my living
was more than I planned.
So I held the needle
like a gun in my hand.
Not outta courage —
outta exhaustion.
Outta that please-make-it-stop kind of silence
that burns louder than any scream.
Even now — clean —
my hands still remember the weight.
They twitch when the world gets heavy,
like muscle memory don’t know I’m trying to live.
They call this recovery.
But it feels like standing
in the ashes of a house I built myself
and telling my lungs,
“Go on. Breathe.
It’s safe now.”
But it never feels safe, does it?
I miss the numb.
I miss the nothing.
But I want the morning more.
I want the shaking and the sunlight
and the proof —
the proof that I can outlive
my own escape route.
Yeah, the cost of living is still high,
but I’m paying it differently now.
One breath.
One truth.
One trembling day at a time.
And I’m still here —
still here —
still paying.
Still worth the price.
Through the Fog 