Nightmares Don’t End at Dawn

I wake,
drenched in sweat and silent screams,
the nightmare still clinging
to the hollow of my ribs—
each breath a battle,
each blink a curse.

First thought:
Why am I still here?
Why does this body keep breathing
when my soul’s already fled
a thousand nights ago?
The morning feels cruel,
like survival is punishment.

Second thought:
The blade.
Cool. Honest.
It never lies about the cost—
just pain for pain.
Blood for breath.
It understands the language
my mouth can’t speak.

Third thought:
If only someone stayed.
Someone who didn’t flinch at the wreckage,
who saw me—not as broken,
but burning,
and still chose to reach in.
I ache for that kind of love—
not perfect,
just real.
Just here.

But the room is empty.
And I am not.
And that’s the cruelest thing of all.