Shadows of seagulls

soaring overhead

offer no respite

from the glaring sun above.

You could fry an egg

on the asphalt by mid-morning.

Despite reapplying,

by 1 o’clock

I’m scarlet like

perfectly cooked lobster —

If only someone

would crack me open.

But molting will take time

I wear my sun-dried shell

because I have no choice

but to be myself.

Today I glow,

but not with health.

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