Midnight rain piercing through your flesh armour.
Armour? The armour hasn’t existed in months.
It rusted quietly
in the corners of sleepless nights,
in the pauses between your sentences
when you pretended you were fine.
The rain knows this.
It doesn’t knock anymore.
It walks straight through you—
cold, familiar, merciless.
Once, you would have called it pain.
Now it feels more like recognition.
Like the sky
finally touching the wound
you kept insisting
was only a scar.
The rain lingers there,
as if it has been waiting
for the armour to disappear.
Drop by drop
it maps every fragile place
you tried to bury
under bravery and silence.
And you stand there,
not fighting it,
not running—
just letting the storm
remember you.
Because somewhere along the way
you realised something strange:
the armour never really protected you.
It only kept the world
from reaching your pulse.
And tonight,
under a sky that refuses to be gentle,
you feel everything again—
the ache,
the warmth,
the unbearable honesty of being open.
The rain keeps falling.
But for the first time in months,
you are not trying
to build the armour back.
You are simply standing there,
bare as truth,
letting the storm pass through you
like a long overdue confession.