summertime sadness with a sky on fire

i now understand why the sun is described as beating, beating down on our backs with its unbridled rage. it feels like a fist on fire, because the sun can trick us, like hands, into thinking it is soft and warm, something comforting—if you were close enough, you might just be able to hold it.

the sun greets you with an outstretched palm every spring and waits for you to follow, but if your heart is still trapped between the strong branches and bright colors of autumn, oh, the sun, how it screams like a jealous lover. hell falls from the sky when its hands turn to fists and summer’s beasts are unleashed with the fury of war—wars have been fought over less than lost love.

when raw power becomes a drunken hazard, bloods boil and we walk down streets of hazy tar, one last stroke of the cheek before the first slap rains down and the world is forever changed by hate.

what a tragic, immortal thing it is to love the sun. they see us as toxic, terrible, when they whisper about the burns on my hands, but i still climb ladders to kiss the sky. because icarus must have been into something, right?

summer struck harder than heartbreak and i am sticky with burning sweat and the smell of fear. but these heavy eyelids hold spring’s sunny smile behind the curtains—there is still good, there is still good if i survive the fire.

images found on pinterest