He Sees the Salt and Calls You Honest

The key turns in the lock before you are ready to be seen. You hear the metal slide home and panic rises because the tears are still wet on your cheeks, raw and unhidden.

You scramble to compose a face that says 'I am fine,' but the light does not need your performance to enter. It sees the salt on your skin and calls it honest.

There was a woman once who thought she had to be clean before she could be touched, who pushed through a crowd just to graze the hem of a cloak while she was still bleeding. He did not ask her to wash first.

He did not ask her to hide. He felt the power leave him and turned to call her daughter in the middle of her mess.

The door is opening now, and the one who walks through is not looking for a mask. He is looking for you, exactly as you are, cry and all.