Angry at the Sun

I am angry at the sun. I am angry at the sun for shining its spotlight on my insecurities. The sweat on my brow, The sweat on my upper lip, The sweat pouring down my face In buckets; I am a mess. I am angry at the sun for searing my flesh Though I did everything I could to prevent from being cooked alive. I think the sun wants to eat me. Although my flesh is browned and charred by the hellish sun, I don't smell very delectable at all. I wouldn't eat me. I am angry at the sun for weighing me down with its unbearable heat. Heat that I carry upon my back and in the sweat on my brow that pulls me down to the depths of hell until I'm too weary to go on. I am angry at the sun for causing my skin to grow older than my heart and for causing the cancer to grow in the skin of my father and mother. I am really angry at the sun for that. The sun is a cancerous growth pressing down on the charred flesh of my shoulders Increasing the volume of sweat in my brow and on my lip Reminding me that I could have just stayed inside instead.