The Salt and My Skin

I’ve spent ten years scrubbing my hands clean in a city that tastes like exhaust fumes and broken promises. I was hollow, just another ghost walking through neon light. Then came Elias—a man with calloused fingers and eyes that looked like they'd seen every storm since the dawn of time.
He didn’t bring me flowers; he brought me salt. He told me about a ritual from his childhood in a coastal town I can’t name, something about drawing out the poison through skin and silence. So here I am, wrapped in this heavy white shroud that smells like old laundry and new beginnings.
I feel it now—the grit of the earth against my forehead and cheeks, cold at first, then humming with a heat only he can ignite. My eyes are closed because I don’t want to see the street outside or the clock ticking toward midnight. I only want to be here: under his touch, letting him paint me in minerals while we breathe together in a room that feels like an island.
He leans close and whispers something about how even scars can shine if you feed them right. The salt is scratching at my surface, but beneath it all, there's this slow-burn fire I’ve forgotten how to feel. For the first time in years, I don’t want to be clean; I just want to be his.

Editor: Street-side Poet