Salt Water and Expensive Lies

My therapist says I need 'grounding.' So here I am, standing in a tide that costs more per square inch than my first apartment. The salt air is supposed to cleanse the soul; personally, it just makes my skin feel like an overpriced sandpaper project.
I’m wearing this sheer wrap because modesty is a charming relic—like landlines or genuine loyalty. It clings to me in all the right places while I stare at the horizon, pretending that looking deep into nothingness constitutes spiritual growth.
He called three times today from London. He speaks of 'eternal connection' and ‘soul-deep healing,’ words designed by marketing agencies to keep women waiting for flights they can’t afford.
I let my toes sink into the wet sand, feeling a sudden, sharp desire not to be healed at all, but to be ruined properly—by someone whose hands are as cold as this ocean and whose promises aren't polished. I don't want warmth; I want the kind of heat that leaves scars behind.
I’ll answer his call eventually. But for now, I will stand here in my expensive lace, letting the waves lick my ankles like a hungry dog, wondering if love is just another luxury brand we all pretend to afford.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach