You Are the Reason It Burns

The house is quiet now, and the silence has a weight that feels like an accusation. In the dark, your mind begins to tally the cost of keeping you close, convincing you that your needs are too heavy, your brokenness too expensive for anyone to bear.

You are ready to slip away before morning, believing you are saving everyone the trouble of your presence. But listen — the light does not calculate the cost of loving you.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen, still rehearsing his apology. He did not wait for the speech.

He did not weigh the burden of restoration. He ran.

The love that reaches you tonight is not looking for someone easy to hold. It is already running toward the one who feels like too much trouble.

You are not a burden to the light. You are the reason it burns.