No Mask Needed at Your Table

The steam rises from your mug, a perfect curtain between you and the kitchen door. You hold your face still, a neutral mask crafted so the footsteps passing by won't stop to ask why your eyes are red.

You think you are hiding the breakage. You think the light requires a composed expression to enter the room.

But the light does not need your performance. It came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord — and it recognizes its own, even behind the armor.

You do not have to explain the tears to be held. The mask is heavy, and you were never meant to wear it at your own table.

The struggle is not that you are broken; the struggle is believing you must hide it to be loved.