Goddamn Summer.

Heat.

It broils beneath the surface of my tortured scarlett pores. Like the firefly, I too now pulse with a glow through the darkness; I am the light behind an open oven door.

My body - coloured red with the finess of a kindergarten savant - pulses vibrantly with pain, and will, I know, continue to change hue. Once a healthy alabaster, the angry primary will, sooner or later, give way to bilious yellow blisters that pop to leave behind raw, pink rings, and grey scales of dead skin. These I shall scrape away, just as one scrapes the blackened corpse of over-cooked toast. I relish the thought.

I feel rubbery and swollen - a basketball brilliantly baked by febric asphalt. Heat eminates from me as the bleak stench of decay eminates from a bloated corpse. I can see it creeping across the room, its gummy hands unpocketed and trailing over everything. Hot to the touch.

How I long to roll about in snow! To sizzle and steam until cooled and happy. Alas, I can do nothing but swelter and complain until the ruby layers rot.

I loathe summer.