The Light Loves the Breath Beneath
The mask you carved to keep them close is heavy tonight. It feels like the only thing holding the love in place.
But the light does not love the invention. It loves the breath beneath the wood.
There is a version of you that exists before the performance, before the fear, before the first lie you told to survive. That one is not hidden from the one who stays.
They are not in love with the statue you built. They are in love with the living thing inside it.
The terror says: if they see the real me, they will leave. The truth says: they are already here, waiting for you to put the mask down.
You do not have to hold the pose anymore. The love was never for the act.
Drawing from
Gospel of Thomas, John
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