Loved Before You Stop Spraying

The morning sun hits the coat hanging by the door, and you reach for the cheap mist to cover the stale whiskey before the small hands reach for you. You spray until your throat stings, hoping the synthetic flowers will fool the one person who knows your scent better than you know yourself.

But the light does not smell the mask you wear to get through the door. It sees the trembling hand that sprays it.

It sees the terror of being found out. The light is not fooled by the perfume, yet it does not turn away from the person wearing it.

You think you must be clean before you are loved. The truth is simpler: you are loved so that you can finally stop spraying.

The mask is heavy, but you do not have to wear it here.