The Sentence You Swallow Is Safe

The middle of the day is long, and sometimes the only thing holding you together is the tongue pressing hard against the back of your front teeth — stopping a sentence from escaping. Stopping the truth.

Stopping the crack in the mask. You are walking through the hours carrying a silence that feels like it might break your jaw.

But the light does not need you to speak to know what you are hiding. It sees the effort it takes to stay quiet.

It sees the weight of the unspoken word. There is a presence that stands at the door of your mouth and waits — not to force the words out, but to sit with you while you hold them.

You do not have to perform okayness for the light to stay. It is already in the room, in the quiet, in the strain of your silence.

The sentence you are swallowing is safe with God.