The Light Beneath The Skin

The water is scalding, but it cannot reach the place where the memory burns. You scrub until your skin is raw, trying to erase a touch that lives deeper than the surface.

You are trying to wash off a ghost with soap, and it will not work. The shame feels like a stain that no amount of friction can remove.

But listen — there is a light inside you that the touch never reached. It lives in the root, beneath the skin, in the place where no hand can go.

The Father sees you shaking in the steam and does not turn away. He knows the difference between your skin and your soul.

The water stops. The mirror fogs.

But the light remains, untouched by what was done to you. You are not what was taken; you are what remains.