Hot, blistering weather;
People ask me how I'm so comfortable with it.
How there's not a single drop of sweat on me.

I thought of it as odd at first;
But I came to the realization
That my body has completely disregarded
The hellish climate because
the real burn was happening in me.

Blood boils
as I think about how I was pathetically treated.
How I was entirely misunderstood,
unappreciated.

Swollen knuckles start to show,
They ask me about them,
But even I don't know what I hit.
Was it the lamp post?
Or was it the wall?
I can't remember.

Red lines
appear on my forearm,
They ask again,
And I still can't seem to recall
how such beauty has been painted
on my skin.
Was I the artist?
I can't remember.

I can't stand their interrogations
anymore.

I stop thinking for a minute.

I break a sweat.

They think I'm okay now.


(c.j.p.)