The Light Is Deeper Than Skin

The water is scalding, but it cannot reach the place where you feel stained. You scrub until your skin is raw, trying to wash off the memory of hands that had no right to touch you.

But the violation was on the surface, and the light is deeper than skin. There is a part of you they never touched, a place their fingers could not find.

The father in the story did not wait for his son to wash off the pig sty before he ran to him. He ran while the filth was still fresh.

He threw his arms around the smell of failure and held on tight. The light does not ask you to be clean before it comes close.

It comes close to make you whole. Put the sponge down.

The water can wash the dirt, but only the light can wash the shame. You are not what was done to you today.