I want to sit under the sun and warm the cold parts of me.
I want this big glowing sphere millions of miles away to notice me.
I want it to wrap its rays of warmth and light around my soul and call it home.
With its hug, I will never need to fear the cold.
The hair on my arms will never again raise in concern.
My teeth will never again chatter, blasting an eerie harmony.
My limbs will never again shiver; friction its friend.
I find myself cold most mornings. I use my warm blankets as an approximation of the sun that shines in through my window. I hesitate turning on my heater because it both feels ridiculous to pay for in San Diego’s heat and it emits the strangest burning smell that leaves me unsettled.
Despite the blankets and fuzzy socks and heating pads and sweatshirts, the cold conquers. It seems impossible to rid myself of, and I turn towards the most extreme heat to find relief.
I wonder if the sun can warm my cold?
I wonder if I allow it to burn me, will the heat in the aftermath be worth it?
I wonder if the scars will be noticeable?
I wonder all of this as I sit semi-warmed by the heat emitting from my overworked MacBook, feet tucked under one another, arms braving the crisp air to type this sentence.
