Saltwater Therapy: No Room for Ghosts

The ocean doesn't ask questions, and frankly, neither do I.
Yesterday, I was drowning in a sea of 'what-ifs' and the suffocating texts of someone who thought they could keep me on a leash. They called it love; I call it emotional clutter. So, I traded that heavy, toxic noise for the rhythmic pulse of the tide and this shimmering, iridescent armor.
The sun is hitting my skin just right, and the salt is scrubbing away the residue of every mediocre man who ever tried to dim my light. There's a specific kind of healing that only happens when you realize your own reflection looks damn good without needing anyone else to validate it in the frame.
I’m not waiting for a prince to pull me from the waves; I am the wave. If he wants to join, he better bring something more substantial than empty promises and 'love brain' delusions. Otherwise, let him stay on the shore where it's safe.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks