The Light Does Not Ask You To Shrink

The cursor blinks in the middle of the day, a rhythmic accusation while you delete another sentence. You are editing your own voice, carving out the neediness, the hunger, the raw edge of what you actually feel, until the message sounds safe enough to send.

Your hands tremble because you are trying to be small enough to fit inside someone else's comfort zone. But the light does not ask you to shrink.

It lives in the unedited truth, in the part of you that dares to say: I need you. Stop smoothing the rough places.

The tremor is not a flaw; it is the friction of the real breaking through the performance. You were sent into this hour not to be palatable, but to be present.