You Do Not Have to Be Whole

The day is done, and the armor you wore to survive it is finally heavy enough to drop. But now comes the terror of the helping hands reaching for you while you are stripped bare.

You want to cover yourself. You want to hide the bruises, the shame, the parts of your story that feel too ugly to be touched.

Yet the light does not flinch at your nakedness. It entered the prison of the body not to admire your strength, but to wake you from the deep sleep of hiding.

The one who calls your name already knows the worst thing about you, and still, the hands reach out. They are not coming to judge the skin they find.

They are coming to wash it. You do not have to be whole to be held.

You only have to be open. The terror of being seen is the last wall between you and the relief of being known.