Oh, how I loathed the heat.

The days of February signaled the end of peace, at least for me. When layers gave way to skin, ice became sweat, and numbness grew to feeling.

Humanity vaunts itself as the apex of the world. And yet we struggle against the futility of nature like all the rest. What did a blizzard worry for fire? What did sheets of rain care for cars?

Ah, it sears me even now.

My brow glistens, hidden behind a void of cloth. Eyes, the barest amounts of skin peeking around them, blink away droplets of sweat dripping onto lashes. The covered tips of my fingers dance with motion, skating across dampened cloth. They look at me oddly, the people that have been deemed my friends, acquaintances, and even strangers. I understand why, but question what business it is of theirs. Yes, my face is red and my breath comes out in pants of heat. My hair is stringy and sticky with sweat, and drips onto my shoulders and neck. If I were not so limited by this form of mine would they still raise these concerns? 

I know the answer, of course. 

A friend asks after me, worry decorating their tone, asking if I’d like to take off my jacket. Did I really need a headband, a mask, a hat, and a scarf? Couldn’t I at least do without the long johns? Their worry turns into desperation, and I hold back the acid I wish to spit. Remove it all? Bare myself to them?

I acquiesce, of course. Their worries that feel like demands are well-founded in logic, and so what choice did I have?

The grip on my throat tightens like a mother’s embrace, and I hug back. I can’t breathe as I laugh with them. I can’t move as they wring the scarf of sweat. The light of the sun and the artificial brilliance of bulbs make no difference to me. Both make me itch and scratch until I’ve peeled to what’s underneath.

I long to seize my home again, to return to peeking at the world from safety and comfort. 

I long to sink into the short shadow behind me, perpetually out of reach, if only for a few weeks longer.