You Do Not Have to Edit Your Hunger

The sun is setting, and the armor you wore all day finally feels heavy enough to put down. You type the words that ache in your chest, then you delete them because they sound too much like need.

As if needing someone was a flaw in your design. But the light does not ask you to be strong now that the work is done.

It asks you to be honest. There was a man who lay beside a pool for thirty-eight years, waiting for someone to help him into the water.

When the light found him, it did not scold him for his dependency. It asked: do you want to get well?

The question itself was the hand reaching down. You do not have to edit your hunger to make it presentable.

The light is not afraid of your thirst. It is the water you are trying to describe.