Wounds like windows

Wounds, like windows, when opened, let in light and the breath of something new. But it takes courage to unlatch what pain has sealed shut. We board them up, plaster the cracks, pretend the draft isn't there— but silence has a smell, and you can only hold your breath for so long. Sometimes, healing sounds like wind whistling through what broke— a quiet reminder that damage doesn’t mean done, that ruin is not the same as ending. Air moves different through a wound, cool against what once burned. Dust shifts in forgotten corners. And the light— not blinding, but patient— lingers, touching the rawness without demanding repair. Let it. Let the ache speak. Let the light crawl across your ribs and settle into the hollows you tried so hard to erase. Wounds, like windows, don’t have to be beautiful to be open. They only have to let something in.