Salty Trails

The air conditioning, a blast,

straight to my face.

But the skin still sticky, built to last,

the effort, no wasted space.

A small bead, making its own way,

from temple, past the eye's edge.

A salty trail, like yesterday's

mistakes, clinging to a ledge.

The clammy shirt, a second skin,

just a grim proof of the fight.

The heat inside, the burn within,

pushing out, into the light.

It feels like leaking something out.

Some hidden, necessary cost.

Leaving damp marks, no doubt.

Everything I gave, and lost.