You are a goddess, and I am a simple being, trembling beneath the weight of your presence. I believed you would heal me— wrap me in silken light, stroke the knots of my sorrow until they unraveled into grace. And you said, “Sure, let’s begin.” But what I meant wasn’t this. What I thought was gentleness wasn’t the fire you lit in me. I thought healing would be soft and sensual, a balm against my bruises, a dream made flesh, a cocoon for my desires. Not this— this unmasking, this shattering of the mirror that held the fragile portrait of my persona. Not this pain, raw and unrelenting, flaying my illusions one by one until I stood exposed, naked in your gaze. You loved me in the discomfort, held me in the discovery, kissed the breaking open as though it were a blessing. And perhaps it is. Perhaps healing isn’t soft, but sharp, jagged, alive. Perhaps the only way to live is to be pierced by it, to be stripped of every lie until the truth shines like a wound, like a gift. And so I stan...