Angry at the Sun

I am angry at the sun.
I am angry at the sun for shining its spotlight on my insecurities.
The sweat on my brow,
The sweat on my upper lip,
The sweat pouring down my face
In buckets;
I am a mess.
I am angry at the sun for searing my flesh
Though I did everything I could to prevent from being cooked alive.
I think the sun wants to eat me.
Although my flesh is browned and charred by the hellish sun,
I don't smell very delectable at all.
I wouldn't eat me.
I am angry at the sun for weighing me down with its unbearable heat.
Heat that I carry upon my back and in the sweat on my brow that pulls me down to the depths of hell until I'm too weary to go on.
I am angry at the sun for causing my skin to grow older than my heart and for causing the cancer to grow in the skin of my father and mother.
I am really angry at the sun for that.
The sun is a cancerous growth pressing down on the charred flesh of my shoulders
Increasing the volume of sweat in my brow and on my lip
Reminding me that I could have just stayed inside instead.