I run cold.
I blame my roots. I blame the peppers in my bloodstream, the curry in my cells. I blame the Alamo, where I learned to breathe deep, where I learned to carry rebellious sunshine in my windpipes.
The world is a tall glass of ice resting too near my inner flame. It leaves a residue where we touch. It leaves a thousand cold, wet kisses.
My hands freeze in mid-range temperatures, so badly they cramp until they lose feeling altogether. I wait for the numbness, my body shivering it's way through a marathon until it is still.
I run cold.
My skin raises to the challenge. It is a warrior nation, each pore standing tall. Alone, their fearlessness would be undetected. Together, even strangers can see my protest- my make-shift armor of goosebumps and chills.
The kisses are exhausting, the armor is heavy, the pushing between fight or flight leaves no room for appetite or thought,
but I eat on the patio now.
I ask for the table outside.
I sit by the beach.
I leave the windows open and breathe in the cold air, because I am no longer shackled to the inside. I am no longer denied the sight of the moon, the wind, the world.
I am once again able to move, to exist, to run.
So I do, I run.
I run cold.
I shiver into my seat, pulling my leather jacket over my zipped up hoodie, over my sweater. It is in the 70's today.
I came prepared.
My hands reach out to hold my soda, and the waitress gently lets me know that there's room inside.
I am happy here, I tell her, so she asks if I am sure.
No, I am not.
But I am free,
and for awhile more, my roots can freeze,
as I celebrate
my wings.
