The Morning That Knows

The light comes in before I’m ready.
It always does.
Thin and unforgiving,
like it’s here to remind me
what I tried to outrun.

My mouth tastes like something burnt.
My hands are heavy.
My chest is quiet 
too quiet 
the kind of quiet that feels like shame
instead of rest.

I don’t remember falling asleep.
I don’t remember the last drink.
I just remember the relief
before everything went dark.

And now everything is back.
All at once.
No warning.

The thoughts.
The heaviness.
The self I tried to leave on the floor.

There’s no violence in it.
Just gravity.
Just the slow realization
that nothing went away 

I just paused it.

I sit on the edge of the bed
and breathe through the ache.
Not the headache.
Not the nausea.

The ache of being alive again.

People talk about guilt.
They don’t understand.
It isn’t guilt.
It’s recognition.

I press my palms to my face
and whisper,
not a prayer,
not a promise 
just a tired truth

I’m still here.

And sometimes
that’s the hardest part.