Morning Regret

I open my eyes
and already regret it.
The ceiling stares back,
blank,
like it knows my secret.

Morning should mean life,
but for me it’s the ache—
the whisper that I don’t belong
to this day.

It’s only been days,
but my skin remembers,
my body begs
for the sting of metal,
for the red relief
I’m not allowed to chase.

The craving curls inside me,
hungry and cruel,
most vicious
in these first minutes of breath,
when I am weakest,
when waking feels like punishment
instead of mercy.

I don’t want to start here.
I don’t want this thought
to be my first companion.
But it clings to me,
unshakable,
like a shadow
that refuses
to let me rise.