Love Remains When Water Stops

The shower is roaring, a white noise curtain drawn against the house. You are pouring the hidden stash down the drain, watching the liquid swirl away while the steam hides the smell.

This is the mask you wear in the morning light—performing the ritual of cleanliness while scrubbing at a stain only you can see. But the light does not need you to be spotless before it enters; it sees the trembling hand and the exhausted eyes behind the performance.

There is a part of you that knows the kingdom is not a distant reward for the perfectly clean, but something already inside you, waiting to be recognized beneath the shame. The accuser in your head is loud, whispering that you are too broken to be held, yet the truth is greater than that verdict.

You are not defined by what you are washing away, but by the love that remains when the water stops running.