To be known is an ache, a holy wound, a trembling voice in the quiet room,
Where shame has carved its jagged lines, and self-contempt whispers, “You are defined.”
The critic looms with its sharpened tongue, a song of scorn it has always sung.
It names your worthless, hidden face, it brands your soul a barren place.
The wounds of time tell their tale, longings unmet, hopes that fail.
Echoes of love that was never shown, leave the heart cold, feeling unknown.
Shame drapes its veil, a heavy disguise, blinding the heart, clouding the skies.
It says, “Hide away; they’ll never stay. Who you are must be locked away.”
Self-contempt builds walls too high, a fortress of lies where dreams go to die.
“You’ll never be enough,” it cruelly jeers, and keeps us bound to our deepest fears.
Yet healing begins where grace draws near, in the light that stays when we disappear.
Love’s fierce gaze will not look away, even when shadows beg it to stray.
To be known is a dangerous grace, to stand unhidden in a sacred space.
It’s the risk of being fully seen, not perfect, not polished, but raw, unclean.
Love calls the child who learned to hide, and walks them back through pain denied.
It gathers the fragments, speaks their name, unveils the story beneath the shame.
For to be known is to find release, a balm for the war, a longed-for peace.
It rewrites the scripts of contempt and fear, and whispers, “You are wanted here.”
So bring your burden, your hidden despair, your self-despising, your silent prayer.
Love does not flinch; it holds, it stays, and mends the wounds of the darkened days.
To be known is the soul’s true cry, a holy longing we cannot deny.
For in the knowing, we’re made complete— The place where brokenness and beauty meet.
Step to the light; let the veil be torn. Here, in the open, you are reborn.
No shame too deep, no wound too far, to dim the light of who you are.
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