The sun is one of my favorite things, yet it’s warmth can be a terrible reminder of the coldness of everything it touches.

Scott McSunnyday

When your gentle ray’s bounce from my fragile, lightly tanned skin, I am left with a comforting warmth that leaves little to be desired. Sweat pours down my face and drenches my clothes; they stick to my body like maple syrup to a dirty plate. The occasional breeze brushes my hair back with a mythical elegance, in a way that a brush and blow dryer never could. I watch squirrels, chipmunks and robins live harmoniously, thinking about how people on the other side of the world see creatures that are totally different and foreign to me. You hug me like my rocking horse-covered baby blanket and nuzzle me until I’m close to falling asleep.

I reach back behind my neck and below my shirt collar until I feel cold, hard metal. I unhook the latch and I lift my head up, placing it under my armpit. The sun’s rays shoot down my now open neck and illuminate my insides. I see the light surround my beating heart and rising and lowering lungs, along with the blood flowing through my intricate veins, arteries and ventricles. I can see the dissolving food in my stomach and how the acid melts it down to waste. I can even see my spine reaching high up into where my head should be. Yet, with all of the things that I see illuminated inside me, I do not feel the warmth. I know how it should feel inside, but even still, I feel nothing. My heart hasn’t warmed and neither have my lungs, veins or spine.

My detached head sighs as I place it back on my neck. After fiddling with the latch, it fits firmly back into place. With no more light inside of me, it makes sense that I feel cold. I just wish I felt the same inside as out.