The Salt of My Scars

The salt flats are blinding, a sterile white void that mirrors exactly how I felt when the city finally broke me. People call this 'peace,' but to me, it just looks like an empty canvas where nothing is allowed to grow.

I wore this dress because I wanted to feel something sharp against my skin—a reminder that I am still physically here, even if my spirit feels as evaporated as the desert air. The wind pulls at the silk, trying to strip away the layers of armor I’ve spent years building. It's invasive.

Then there was him. He didn't arrive with grand gestures or hollow promises; he just stood on the periphery of my isolation, offering a warmth that didn't demand anything in return. He looks at me not as something to be fixed, but as someone who is allowed to be broken.

I tell myself I hate how much his presence softens my edges. It’s dangerous to let the frost melt. But standing here, under this vast, indifferent sky, I realize that even a desert can hold life if you stop trying to freeze it solid.

Editor: Hedgehog