✨anger✨
She saw the word SALT
on a torn scrap of paper.
It was laying on the ground by her feet
right in the middle of telling her friend
how they’d both survived
men who spoke like prophets
but loved like cowards.
And just like that—
it all came rushing back.
The way he made freedom sound
like a holy calling,
like God himself had sent him
to rescue her from something less.
Told her she was sacred,
too sacred to waste in a dying thing.
Oh, how he preached freedom
like a gospel she was supposed to swallow
while he hid his ring in a glove box
and his lies behind holy-sounding empathy.
But she was just his rebellion,
his experiment,
his something wild before going home
to what he already chose.
She was his thrill.
A fun little spell
before he went running
back to the life he was never ready to leave.
When he showed up,
it was with charm and promises.
When she was at death’s door,
it was with cash and distance.
He wasn’t there
when they cut into her chest,
when they pulled the poison from her body,
when the mirror became
a thing she had to fight to look at.
When the infection carved into her body
and took part of her breast with it,
He sent money
like hush money—
like silence was a fair trade
for not showing the fuck up.
But she remembers…
how he showed up for her—
the one he left behind,
just for a moment.
The one whose pain got his presence,
while her pain got polite apologies
and plastic generosity in Venmo.
That’s how she knew.
That’s when she named it:
fraud.
Money is his God,
and simultaneously,
part of his childhood wound.
So she carries salt now.
Salt from the tears he didn’t catch.
Salt from the wound he never saw.
And the ones he created.
Salt from the earth, the ocean,
and the divine mother
who whispered:
“Let him go.
He was never strong enough
to hold the kind of love you carry.”
But don’t worry.
She’ll heal uneven.
She’ll heal crooked and holy.
She’ll wear her scars like armor
and pour salt in the footprints he left
so nothing like him ever grows there again.
And still, she’ll never hate him.