You Are Fire, Not Stain

The hand pulls back before it even makes contact. You are convinced that whatever is on your skin will transfer to them—that your darkness is contagious, that your touch will stain the one you love. So you withdraw. You hold your breath. You wait for them to leave before you move again.

But the light does not work by contamination. It works by ignition. You came from the light, the place where the light generates itself, and that origin cannot be diluted by your shame. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world. If you do not shine, it is dark—but the light itself remains untouched, waiting to be remembered.

You are not a carrier of stain. You are a carrier of fire. And fire does not soil what it touches; it cleanses it. Pulling away does not protect them. It only starves you of the very thing that proves you are clean.