The Light Was Never Dirty

The water is too hot, but you stand there anyway, trying to scrub the performance off your skin. For six hours, you held a tone that wasn't yours, a voice that smiled when you wanted to scream. Now, in the steam, the silence feels heavy enough to drown in. You are washing, but the stain of the day feels like it has soaked into the bone.

There is a place inside you where no mask can stick. Before the first word was spoken this morning, before the act began, you were already whole. The light does not need you to wash it clean; it waits beneath the exhaustion, untouched by the role you played.

Let the water run until it cools. Step out not because you are finally clean, but because the light was never dirty to begin with.