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.



  1. Beautiful, beautiful, and yet…I suppose with your perspective, so different. Mine is all focussed on how to stay warm, how to not freeze, not cramp, not purple-and-white-and-goosebump in the mild.

    Hot water bottles and blankets all the way, baby, and thank GOODNESS I have the luxury.

    Liked by 1 person


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