The Light Enters Through The Stain

The day is done, and the armor you wore for twelve hours finally hits the floor. Now there is only the mirror, and the raw red patches you trace with a trembling finger.

You are convinced that anyone who touches you will feel the stain underneath—that your brokenness is a texture others can sense before they even make contact. But the light does not flinch at the sight of raw skin.

It does not wait for you to heal before it draws near. Tonight, the exhale is not about fixing the wound; it is about letting the light see what you have been hiding.

The stain you fear is not a barrier to love; it is the very place where the light enters. You do not have to cover yourself to be held.