The Light Hears You Before You Speak

The water is running loud on purpose. You are rehearsing the words you cannot say to a living soul, trusting the steam to swallow your voice if it breaks.

This is the bottom of the night, where the shame feels heaviest and the silence feels like a wall. But listen — the light does not need your voice to be steady.

It does not need your confession to be articulate or dry-eyed. It is already in the steam.

It is already in the tears that the showerhead hides. You do not have to finish the sentence for the light to hear you.

It heard you before the water turned on. It is sitting on the tile with you, not waiting for the performance to end, but holding you while you fall apart.

The darkness has not overcome it.