Nightmares Don’t Knock.

It’s midnight, and my bed turns into 

a crime scene. 

The past kicks the door in–

doesn’t knock, doesn’t ask permission. 

It throws my body into the dirt

like I’m back there, 

face down, veins begging for mercy, 

ghosts laughing in the dark.

The night splits open like a wound,

its edges jagged, dripping memories I 

swore were buried.

I lie down, and the past floods in—

the sterile glow of hospital lights,

the hollow click of a lighter,

the shadows of hands I couldn’t trust.

Sleep is no refuge.

It’s a battlefield where echoes fight 

to be remembered.

Faces appear, blurred but vivid,

their voices static in my ears—

“Just one more,

just one more night,

just one more piece of yourself

you won’t get back.”

But that was then. 

That was then!

And now I wake up gasping for air,

heart racing, choking on the shadows

of who I used to be, 

body tangled in sheets like the cords 

that tied me to those years.

I claw my way out–

I am here.

I am alive.

I am not there anymore.

But the nightmares?

They don’t care about the work I’ve done–

the therapy sessions or journal pages soaked in tears.

They don’t care about the steps I’ve climbed, the breaths I’ve fought to take.

They don’t care about the clean days 

stacked like fragile dominoes. 

They just come.

Relentless. Ruthless.

They come like thieves,

stealing sleep, stealing peace.

And leave me shaking in the wreckage. 

So, I get up.

Another morning arrives.

Another chance to gather myself again,

piece by fragile piece, 

with hands still shaking. 

I whisper to the mirror,

to the sun breaking through the blinds, 

“You’re here. You made it. 

And they can’t take that from you.” 

Nightmares don’t knock,

but I don’t either.

I kick the day wide open,

step into it raw,

scarred, but standing.

And I whisper a prayer to the sun,

to the light,

to the hope that today,

I’ll hold the past

without it holding me.