The Light Runs Toward Your Bleeding

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy enough to bruise. Sometimes the pain inside is so loud, so chaotic, that you reach for the blade just to make it stop screaming.

You trade the invisible wound for a visible one because at least you can see where the blood comes from. At least you can understand that hurt.

But listen — the light does not flinch when you bleed. It does not turn away from the mess you made trying to feel something real.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in filth and shame, and he did not wait for the boy to clean himself up. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light is already running toward you, not to scold you for the cuts, but to hold the hand that holds the knife.

You do not have to bleed to be seen. You are already known, exactly as you are, in the gathering dark.