The Haze I Chose
Coughing hard,
palms flailing,
grasping at a wall that won’t hold me.
My lungs burn with the lie
I swore I wouldn’t tell again.
Not to them—
but to me.
I said I was done.
That I’d stop chasing silence
in the smoke.
But silence was sweeter
than the echo of your name.
I turn to my side,
curled like the child I used to be
before I knew how sharp love could feel
when it leaves.
I wanted to drown it all—
the hope,
the dreams,
the memories I hate that I still replay.
Every time I screamed,
“You’re so mean,”
and every time I didn’t say it out loud.
Every time I let you win,
pretending it was okay
to be invisible
in your arms.
I set the clock
before I forget the day,
before I lose the minutes
that once held meaning.
My phone buzzes.
I try to reply.
My thumbs miss the words,
and even my autocorrect knows
I’m not making sense tonight.
Messages opened.
None sent.
Just more unread chaos.
My roommate’s voice cuts through the fog,
a soft,
“Are you okay?”
I lift a hand,
wave her away.
That’s all I have to give.
And then—
panic.
It crashes like a wave I didn’t brace for.
Heart racing,
thoughts spiraling.
I feel like time has shattered
and left me in slow-motion shards.
Until—
it doesn’t hurt.
Suddenly,
it’s gone.
The ache,
the scream,
the version of me that begged to stay clean.
Vanished
in a single, glowing ember.
That first inhale warned me—
told me it wasn’t worth it,
told me this isn’t how you heal.
But she was drowned out
by the next wave,
a softer voice
that promised peace
at any cost.
She took my hand
and led me far,
far away
from the girl who used to care.
My mind,
now unburdened,
floats above
the ruins of what you left behind.
No fear.
No grief.
Just space.
A quiet room to feel… nothing.
And that’s what I wanted, right?
To never again remember
how it felt to be in your arms
and still feel so alone.
To never again wake up
wondering what I did wrong.
**** doesn’t fix it.
I know.
But for now—
it blurs the frame
where your face used to live.
I gave you everything.
So what’s left to protect?
I scribble thoughts
in half-sentences
and broken rhymes,
hoping morning-me
will find something honest
in the mess.
Some version of me
worth keeping.
I pull the blanket close,
tuck my knees tight,
as if I could disappear into cotton and warmth.
The ceiling fades.
I’m watching stars now.
They twinkle just enough
to hold me.
One shoots,
and I pretend it’s for me.
A wish I can’t say out loud.
And then—
I drift.
Will I wake
and see the sky
or just the lie I told myself
as I faded?
Either way,
I won’t see you.
Not tonight.
