The Verdict Came Before The Cleanup

The water is hot enough to sting, but it cannot wash away what you are rehearsing in your head. You stand there scrubbing, trying to clean the inside of your soul with the outside of your skin.

The confession loops like a broken record, a speech you are practicing for an audience that isn't there. You think if you can just get the words perfect, if you can just scour the guilt away, you will finally be clean enough to sleep.

But the steam only fogs the mirror; it does not clear the heart. There was a woman caught in the act, dragged into the light while the dust still clung to her skin.

She had no time to rehearse. No time to scrub.

No time to prepare a defense. The light simply bent down, waited for the accusers to leave, and said: 'Neither do I condemn you.' The verdict came before the cleanup.

The freedom came before the bath. You are trying to earn a pardon that has already been spoken over your unwashed, unpolished, messy self.

The light does not wait for you to finish your speech. It does not require you to be spotless before it enters the room.

Tonight, the gathering dark is not a place to hide your stains. It is the very place where the light finds you, exactly as you are, and calls you clean before you have dried off.