Hot & Unbothered

(and now my life is sweet like cinnamon)

It’s 92 degrees and I haven’t broken a sweat.
The sun’s playing favorites again.
I’m not even pretending to be surprised.
It’s been doing that since I stopped begging to be warm.
Since I became the thing that burns.

Lana’s on the radio.
Telling me it’s finally my time.
And maybe for the first time—
I believe her.

It’s not just the melody.
It’s the way her voice curves around a line like she’s been crying in glitter.
The way she can say cinnamon and make it sound like a curse you want to be marked by.
I turn the volume up,
let her drip all over me.

My hands and body radiate heat.
It wasn’t always like that.
I used to sit small.
Folded up in corners,
hoping someone would notice the potential in my silence.
Hoping stillness might look like strength to someone with the right eyes.

But no one ever saved me.
And eventually,
I stopped waiting to be chosen
and chose the fire instead.

Now I don’t wait.
I arrive.
Late. Glowing. Unreachable.
Like the sun showed up to the party wearing my name.

This isn’t confidence.
It’s aftermath.
It’s what happens when you’ve rebuilt yourself out of ash
and made it look like gold leaf.
It’s what survival becomes when you stop dressing it up as humility.

Unbothered doesn’t mean untouched.
It means I’ve bled.
I’ve broken.
I’ve begged the night to be softer.
And I’ve walked out of that same night with a grin and a lighter.

It means I’ve cried in cars and still showed up smelling expensive.
It means I earned the right to walk slow.
To sip something cold.
To let people wait for me.
To speak only when the words are worth the breath.

Now I walk slow, smile easy,
and let her trace the heat like it’s hers.

Because it is.
At least the parts I don’t guard.

They stare.
They wonder.
Maybe they recognize me.
Or maybe they’re just reacting to the scent—
that charged mix of sweat, citrus, and sovereignty.

I don’t chase.
I don’t explain.
I let the silence stretch long enough for people to expose their own guilt.
That’s the thing about heat—
you don’t notice it’s rising until you’re already gasping for air.
By then, it’s in your mouth.
In your shirt.
Under your skin.
And it’s me.

And when Lana croons “pick me up and take me like a vitamin,”
I smile.