The Sun Can’t Touch Me Here

They say summer is for the light.
For golden skin and sugar-rush smiles, for shedding layers until you feel soft and safe enough to be seen. But they don’t mean all of us.  They never do.

For those of us cloaked in shadows, summer is something else entirely.
It’s a trial by fire.
A gauntlet of glares, glittered expectations,
and a heatwave that tries to bleach us invisible.
The sun doesn't welcome us. It tries to erase us.
It wants our black to fade into gray, our lipstick to melt, our resolve to drip like wax.

But we don’t wither.
We adapt.

We trade velvet for mesh armor.
We wear platform sandals.
We line our eyes with charcoal not for beauty, but for battle.
We wield parasols like shields, sigil-stamped and warded against solar conformity.
We carry salt in our pockets and shade in our mouths.

Let them bask in curated brightness.
We find power in the in-between hours,
in dusk’s soft rebellion and midnight’s open arms.
While the world tans itself numb,
we gather in the margins,
beneath underpasses,
in graveyard cul-de-sacs,
on rooftops scorched and sacred.
We dance under fireworks,
each explosion echoing the scream we’ve been silencing all year.

We burn candles even when the sun is high.
We leave offerings in alleyways,
ashes in coffee lids,
spells in discarded receipts.
We wear our darkness like it’s holy.

They call it a season.
We call it a battlefield.

Let them have their brunches and poolside prosecco.
We’ll be by the bonfire, whispering in tongues the sun doesn’t understand.
We'll summon rain with our music,
cool the air with our chants,
and carve summer into something wilder than vacation.

Because summer is a lie, a commercial, a filtered illusion of joy.
But we see through it,
And still we don’t reject it.
We remake it.
We remix the light.

We burn not in spite of the heat,
but because we carry our own fire.
A fire no sun can touch.
A fire that lives in our eyes,
our eyeliner,
our sigils,
our names.

So let them chase the sun.
Let them toast themselves in curated gold.
We have our own light
and it answers to no one.

SOME NEWS:

🖤🖤 Guess who clawed their way back through the veil? I took a little detour through the in-between (don’t ask what I brought back), but now the ritual resumes. Expect weekly hauntings via Tumblr and the Midnight Manifesto. Patreon posts will still bleed in just once a month until the back-to-school bell tolls—then I’ll unleash the real chaos. Coming this fall: School for Defiant Witches. Curriculum. Curses. Cult-level content. Sharpen your pencils. Salt your thresholds. I’ve got more in store than your nightmares can carry.

Redacted lines (and greater mythos) are available to paid tiers on Patreon.