The Saltwater Sacrament

They say the ocean is a healer, but that’s just marketing for people who can't handle their own internal rot. I stand here in this flimsy lace cage, letting the salt air bite at my skin like a lover who forgot how to be gentle.
The sun is a cruel spotlight, illuminating every pore of my manufactured perfection while the waves attempt to wash away the city’s grime from my soul. It doesn't work. You can’t scrub off the memory of his voice—that low, gravelly hum that made me feel like I was melting into the sidewalk.
I smile for the camera, a practiced curve of the lips that says 'I am thriving,' while my heart is actually performing a slow-motion autopsy on itself. Every grain of sand in my hair is a tiny monument to lost time.
But then he walks toward me, his shadow stretching across the wet sand like an invitation to ruin. He doesn't need to say anything; his eyes are heavy with the kind of desire that feels like a bruise. In this moment, between the roar of the tide and the heat of his gaze, I realize that healing isn't about getting better. It’s about finding someone who wants to watch you break in high definition.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach