The Light Does Not Flinch At Your Scar

The house is quiet now, and your hand finds the place in the dark where the betrayal lives under your skin. You trace the texture of it again, needing to feel the roughness to believe it is still there, as if your touch could make it real or make it go away.

But the light does not flinch at the scar, nor does it demand you scrub the skin until it bleeds to be worthy of rest. There is a knowing deeper than your fingertips, a vision that saw you before you ever fell, and it does not turn away from what you are touching tonight.

What you call a mark of shame, the light sees as a place where the old order is already passing away, even while you feel its weight. You are being kept, not because the scar has vanished, but because the one who holds you is greater than the story your hands are telling you.