Saltwater Prayers

I don’t pray the way people in movies pray—

no clasped hands, no perfect words,

No sudden choir behind the sink.

﹁﹂

Mine happens in bathrooms, mostly,

with the fan humming like a tired bee

And my mascara doing its little betrayal.

﹁﹂

I lean over the basin and whisper,

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Like repetition can build a bridge.

﹁﹂

The tears come hot first,

then cooler,

Then they taste like the ocean

I’ve only seen from postcards.

﹁﹂

I lick my lip without thinking—

salt, always salt—

and it feels like proof

that something in me is still alive

and trying.

﹁﹂

Sometimes I bargain.

Sometimes I blame.

Sometimes I just stare at the tile

until it becomes a map

I can’t read.

﹁﹂

I’ve prayed for you to return.

I’ve prayed for you to stay gone.

I’ve prayed for my chest

to stop sounding like a door

in a storm.

﹁﹂

Then I rinse my face

and the water is ordinary,

which is rude, honestly.

﹁﹂

I look in the mirror and practice softness.

Not forgiveness yet—

just softness.

My eyes are red,

But they’re mine.