Loved in the Middle of Broken Glass

The coffee steams. The toast pops.

And you force the corners of your mouth up until they ache, saying 'good morning' in a voice that sounds like it belongs to someone else. Inside, your chest feels like it is full of broken glass—sharp, shifting, dangerous to touch.

You are performing okayness for the people you love, and the exhaustion of holding the mask in place is heavier than the pain itself. But notice this: the light does not need your performance.

It is not fooled by the smile, and it is not repelled by the glass. It sits at the table with you, right in the middle of the act.

You do not have to sweep the shards away before you are loved. The light sees the mask, and it sees the wound beneath it, and it loves both with the same quiet intensity.

You are not required to be whole to be held. Just be here.

The glass is real. But so is the hand that holds you together while you bleed.