The Salt That Cures The Concrete Burn

The city tastes like copper and exhaust, a gritty film over my tongue that no amount of coffee can wash away. But here, the world is just blue water and white foam, raw and unfiltered.

I let the salt spray hit me hard, soaking into skin that's been too polite all week long. It burns just enough to prove I'm alive. You find me standing like this—wild hair whipping in a chaotic wind, wearing nothing but black fabric against the sun because armor is for the office floor.

This isn't about being pretty; it's about burning bright and rough before we go back under that grey sky.

Editor: Street-side Poet