Salt-Stained Exile

The sun is a blade, slicing through the humidity of this curated paradise. They tell me I’m here to heal—to let the salt wash away the gray residue of the city—but my skin feels like it’s being branded by something older than health. It’s not warmth; it’s a slow-motion incineration.
I lean against this tree, a skeletal witness to my own undoing. Every time the tide retreats, I feel his absence pulling at my marrow. He is the city's jagged edge, the neon-lit sin I can’t quit even as I stand in this sanctuary of white sand and blue water.
I want to scream into the ocean until my lungs bleed salt. I want to tear off this dress of polka dots and let the wind strip me bare to the bone. This isn't a vacation; it’s an exile. But God, how beautiful the punishment is when his name is the only prayer left in my mouth.

Editor: The Escape Plan