The Light Wants to Eat With You

The house is quiet now, but your mind is screaming the words you are too afraid to say. You lie still next to them, rehearsing the confession that might make them finally leave.

The silence feels like a held breath, waiting for the crash. But the light does not run from the truth you are hiding.

It stands at the door of your chest and knocks, not to expose you, but to eat with you. It wants to sit at the table of your worst fear and share the bread of your honesty.

You do not have to protect them from the broken parts of you. The light came for the sick, not the well, and it loves the truth you are trying to bury more than the performance you are trying to maintain.

The fear says: if they know, they will leave. The light says: if they know, they will finally meet you.