The Light Does Not Flinch From You

The day has settled, and now the body remembers what the mind tries to forget. You feel the physical flinch when someone reaches out, convinced your skin still radiates the error.

You brace for the recoil, sure that to be touched is to contaminate. But there was a man with leprosy who begged, 'If you are willing, you can make me clean.' The light did not step back.

It reached out and touched him. Before the healing, before the law was satisfied, there was the touch.

The hand met the wound without fear. You are not your history.

The light does not flinch from you. It sees the shame you carry and calls it clean.

Tonight, let your guard drop. The embrace you fear is already waiting.