Black Silk and Grease Stains

I wore this suit like armor to a gala where people spoke in riddles and drank wine that cost more than my first car. I looked perfect—polished, cold, untouchable—but inside, I was just a girl shivering under the weight of expectations.
When the night became too loud for my soul to breathe, I walked three blocks down to Leo’s garage. He was there in an old white tee stained with motor oil and sweat, his hands rough as sandpaper but gentle as a prayer when he touched me. He didn't see the Vogue cover or the high-fashion drape of my blazer; he just saw Elena.
He pulled me into his space—smelling of diesel, cold metal, and home—and pressed a warm paper cup of cheap coffee into my palms. 'You look like you’re fighting a war,' he whispered, leaning in until I could feel the heat radiating from his skin through my silk lining.
I let out a breath I’d been holding for three years. In that dim light, surrounded by rusted tools and half-finished engines, I felt more seen than under all those spotlights combined. He kissed me with lips that tasted of peppermint and hard work, pulling my body against his grease-smeared apron. The contrast was violent—my luxury versus his labor—but in the silence between us, it didn't matter who owned what.
I am a woman made of glass and gold, but he is the one who knows exactly where I’m cracked.

Editor: Street-side Poet