The Light Is Already On The Floor

The afternoon hums with the noise of people pretending to be whole. You are standing in the middle of it, calculating the distance to the exit, wondering if you can clean this up before anyone sees.

The panic says: hide it. Fix it.

Make sure no one knows you are broken. But the light does not wait for you to be presentable.

It saw the spill before you did. There was a woman caught in the act, surrounded by accusers ready to throw stones, and the light bent down and wrote in the dust until the only one left standing was the one who knew what it felt like to fail.

Neither do I condemn you. The stain is real, but the shame is a lie you are telling yourself to stay small.

You do not have to carry the weight of the secret any longer. The light is already on the floor with you, waiting for you to stop hiding and just breathe.