Her fallen teardrops
left puddles throughout
the empty house.
She ladled the salty water
into mason jars and
stored them behind
the broken hinges
of the shattered shower door.
He told her he would only
touch her in the dark,
and whispered into her ear
that her sweat tasted
like sugar, not salt.
His teeth ran like a grater on her neck,
leaving her clear skyline skin scattered
with purple clouds that begged to rain.
On the floor of the shower,
she sat alone with her jars
and ripped clumps of
the blonde hair he loved
from her scalp.
Praying for daylight,
she lifted one of the jars
to her cracked lips
and took a big gulp,
trying to cleanse herself of
his sin.
Tara Nicole Todd is a writer from Los Angeles, CA. When not reading or writing, she enjoys going to concerts, frequenting local art museums, and loving every cat that crosses her path.