The Heat
by Umarah Mughnee
The sun was up to something.
He bought the heat.
It felt like Texas Pete hooked up a blowtorch to the power of 200 suns and planted it up the ass-crack of my universe.
He burned my pavements like hot combs burning little black girls. I wear my branded ears as trophies of what I did to look beautiful.
The heat.
The edges of my shirt go skinny-dipping in my sweat.
These little sweat beads are my jewels.
I keep them in epidermis jewelry boxes so I can show off my struggle.
Because these droplets going down the ups of my back are beautiful.
Struggle is beautiful.
The heat.
A little fire under your ass never hurt nobody.
My soul is a fire hazard waiting to be deconstructed. She takes the nightmares of burn marks and heat-strokes just to dream of sparking fire with her being. She constructs herself with combustion and lightning bolts.
The heat.
I love that I can’t stop sweating.
I say let’s bring on the heat and not glisten like ladies but sweat like fat men in Alabama July’s. It’s just too damn hot.
I think it’s the perfect time to plant your seeds. The perfect time to grow.
The perfect time to burn off your old to make room for your new. You can stand that heat.
The heat.
The sun is my guilty pleasure, my chaotic therapy. The heat that keeps me coming back.
So when I wave at the sun to endure my toxic relationship and go tanning.
The flames that I spit by just breathing
get that much hotter.
MEET UMARAH
