Stop Scrubbing, The Light Is Here

The water is hot enough to sting, but you keep scrubbing, trying to wash off the words you said today. You are rehearsing the confession in the steam, hoping that if you say it perfectly, the guilt will finally rinse away.

But the mirror fogs up again before you can finish the sentence. The darkness is gathering outside, and in the quiet, the accusation feels louder than the running water.

You are tired of performing your own absolution. You are tired of being the judge, the jury, and the one who must fix it.

— There is a voice that does not need your speech to know your heart. It does not wait for the soap to work.

It does not require the perfect apology before it offers peace. The light is not repelled by your mess; it is drawn to the one who knows they are broken.

Stop scrubbing. The stain is not who you are.

The light is already here, standing in the bathroom with you, waiting for you to simply turn off the tap and breathe.