Shame

Shame comes to me like salt,

slowly, through the pores of my skin,

settling in the quiet of my bones.

It grows from the darkest places.

Wraps around my spine,

presses into my chest,

its petals thick, damp with doubt.

It took me years to see it,

to feel the shape of it inside me.

And when I did,

it was like pulling barbed wire from my flesh.

I bled. It tore. It screamed.

Shame fought to stay. It said you need me.

You are small, you are broken,

you are not enough.

And I listen

because shame has a voice

that sounds like truth.

I learned to push it out, inch by inch.

It still comes for me sometimes,

in the middle of the night,

when the world is dark and soft.

I face it, not with rage, not with violence,

but with tenderness.

I lay my hand on its heart, feel its pulse.

I have learned the language of joy,

and it speaks louder than shame ever could.