The Hand That Does Not Flinch

The house is quiet now, but your muscles are still braced for the impact. You have spoken your truth into the dark, and now a hand reaches out to yours.

You wait for the flinch. The recoil.

The moment they realize what you are and pull away. That tension in your shoulder is the memory of every time love turned into judgment.

But look closer at the hand that is coming. It is not hovering to test the temperature.

It is moving to hold. The light does not flinch from what it has already forgiven.

It knows the shape of your brokenness because it lives inside the very cracks you are trying to hide. You expect the touch to burn, but the touch is the proof that you are safe.

The darkness told you that being known means being abandoned. The light proves that being known means being held.