No Guilt in the Shower

The water is loud enough to hide the sound, but not loud enough to hide the weight. You stand there letting it run over you because it is the only place where the mask can finally slip.

You cry quietly so they do not hear, carrying the guilt of your own grief like a second skin. But listen — the light does not need you to be silent to be present.

It is in the steam, in the tile, in the very tears you are trying to suppress. You are not hiding from the Father when you weep; you are washing the day off a heart that has carried too much.

The water knows your sorrow, and it does not judge you for needing to let it out. There is no guilt in the shower, only the honest sound of a soul exhaling what it cannot hold anymore.