S H A M E

Shame is the silent weight people drag behind them — a shadow clinging to the heart, too stubborn to leave, too familiar to confront. It’s the thing we hide deep inside, like a crumpled letter shoved into a locked drawer — too raw, too pathetic to ever see the light. We wear shame like an invisible scar.

Sometimes it’s just a scratch; sometimes it crushes the air out of our lungs. It’s born from the ugly feeling that something in us is broken, wrong, unworthy of being seen. Shame doesn’t shout. It slips in through lowered eyes, cracked voices, long silences when words matter most. It’s the memory of being stripped bare in front of others, or the punishment we carve into our own skin. We carry it because we’re scared. Scared that if anyone saw it, they’d walk away without a second thought. But shame, in its twisted way, proves we still care. Still crave belonging. Still hope — foolishly — to be loved even with all the parts of ourselves we wish we could burn away.