The Light That Survived It

The water is too hot, but you do not turn it down. You are scrubbing until the skin is raw, trying to erase the memory of hands that had no right to touch you.

The steam fills the room, hiding the tears you finally let fall. You feel stained, as if their grip left a mark that soap cannot reach.

But listen — the light does not live in the cleanliness of your skin. It lives in the center of you, where their fingers could never go.

There is a place inside your chest that remains untouched, immaculate, and whole. The water washes the body, but it cannot wash away what was never yours to begin with.

You are not what was taken from you today. You are the light that survived it.