Schmuckumentary

Begin with water.
Cold if you can stand it.

Let it pull the day off you—
the tasks that lingered too long,
the words that stayed lodged in your throat,
the almost-kiss that never happened.

Cup your hands.
Notice how little it takes
to undo a face.

Rinse.

Now, the toner.
Think of your skin as earth—
trampled flat,
split by drought,
but still ready to bloom.

Pat gently.

Does it sting?

Go easy.

You are not breaking yourself open.
You are making room for light.

Sometimes courage comes in glass bottles.
Tonight, just a serum.

This is for the nights
you refuse to go numb.

Press it in.

Hide it under your bruised eyes,
along your jaw
that his tongue once traced,
where you hold your breath.

Now the real ritual.

No performance now.

Let it happen.

Tears are salt
and memory
and mercy.

Apply generously.
Do not ration your feeling.

Let grief hydrate the places
no lotion can reach.

You are not weak for this.
You are waterproofing your soul.