Steel Skin and Silk Lies

I’m leaning against a wall of cold, polished steel that reflects me better than any ex-lover ever did. In this city, everyone sells you 'warmth'—scented candles, overpriced lattes, and those rehearsed scripts about soulmates found in rainstorms. Please.
He thinks he can heal me with gentle touches and late-night poetry readings. He calls it romance; I call it a slow-motion capture of my own surrender. But today, standing here in this metallic void wearing nothing but electric purple fabric that clings to every curve like an accusation, I realize the only healing is knowing exactly how much you're worth when no one is looking.
He’s probably waiting inside with dinner and a soft smile, ready to be my savior. Let him wait. There is something profoundly erotic about being completely alone in public—a private moment stolen from an indifferent skyline. I don't need his warmth; I have the cold steel against my skin and a heart that beats for itself.
I’ll go back inside eventually, play the role of the nurtured woman, and let him believe he saved me. But as I trace my reflection on this wall, I know the truth: I am not being healed. I am simply becoming untouchable.

Editor: Sharp Anna