Until I Burn
The sun ruled over my state like a tyrant, and we learned to be wary of its quiet power as it hung in the sky. At the end of every school year, my teachers would give us the same annual speech:
“Go out into the world and grow into the people you want to be. Have a good summer—oh, and remember to drink plenty of water and don’t stay outside for too long.”
But I never minded it. I liked the heat. I spent my lazy summer days in my backyard, searching tree trunks for cicada shells and making houses for ladybugs out of twigs and rocks. I ran barefoot on the hot pavement before leaping onto freshly watered lawns. On the hottest days, I stuck my feet in the pool while my dog sat next to me on the first step to cool off, as we enjoyed the harsh tingle of the summer heat on our faces. The sun and the heat lived alongside me like a cousin down the road, so I never felt the need to be afraid.
Others weren’t so lucky. The palest people were marked with vermillion patches on their shoulders and rose halos across their noses in August. By comparison, I was among the sun’s most loyal devotees; my skin was kissed by it in the spring and summer, and I yearned for its glow in the winter. I spent whole afternoons outside without sunscreen but never had a sunburn except for one time while on vacation. We were at the beach on an unassuming overcast day, and the sun managed to pierce through the layers of sunscreen my mom slathered on me. My skin was pained with an unfamiliar ache for days, but I didn’t change my habits for years after that incident. It was just a fluke.
As I got older, I spent less time outside. I traded my backyard adventures for dance classes, video games, and the mall. So, I didn’t start to notice how I changed until I was a junior in high school.
One day, early in my summer vacation, I started noticing how hot it was. Then I looked down. Red blotches swirled over my legs like searing lace, which had never happened before. I ignored it. Despite the slight burn, I thought it was another fluke. So, I tried to enjoy the sun like I did in the past, but the same red flare bloomed all over my limbs every single time. People even started pointing it out and would suggest we go inside for my sake. Eventually, I had to admit that I was no longer heat resistant, a quality I bragged about for years. But I wasn’t the only one changing. Every breeze scorched like fire. The green street signs sweated off their white letters. Mailboxes genuflected. Recycling bins hemorrhaged and concaved. Daylight stole everything’s color.
After spending my childhood basking in the sun’s warmth, I craved cloudy and rainy days. I don’t recognize the sun anymore. Every summer, my dad said that we never had to worry about the sun. He would put his dark finger on my arm and say that our melanin would always protect us from its harmful rays and soak up the good ones. His voice was almost cocky when he said the word “melanin,” like we were bound to thrive during even the most blistering days.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Maegan Melissa (she/her) was born in Phoenix and currently resides in Las Vegas after spending half a decade in Southern California. After many speed bumps, she recently completed her Bachelor’s in English at UCLA. Through the encouragement of former teachers, professors, and her mother, she reignited her long-dormant passion for writing. She is featured in Spotlight Poetry Magazine’s Young, Gifted, & Black Anthology Vol. 2.
