The Light Knows Your Silent Screams

The water runs hot, and for a few minutes, the steam holds the words you are too afraid to speak. You rehearse the hurt, the betrayal, the quiet rage that has no name.

But as the towel dries the skin, the words dissolve. You decide it is too much.

Too heavy. Too strange to say out loud.

So you put the mask back on. You walk back into the afternoon light and pretend the storm never happened.

But listen — the light does not need your speech to know your pain. It was there in the shower with you.

It heard every silent scream. There is a truth living inside you that does not need to be performed to be real.

You do not have to carry the weight of explaining yourself to be held. The Father sees what you swallow.

And he calls it known.