They told you the medication makes you burn. They told you to stay inside. You wake up pink each morning, tender under your eyes. You prod the burn, leaving white fingerprints that bloom then disappear. You notice a film of shedding skin coating your lips. You peel and peel and peel. They don’t know about your habit of staring into the sun. About how you used to squint one eye and hold up your hand to the light, cup the sky. As if you could hold the sphere, keep it from lowering behind the trees. Afraid that it might rise fuller the next day. They told you that you could only handle so much heat. You could be burned alive. Scorched out on the pavement like fried eggs. Now you just stare with both eyes wide open. The brown of your iris shifts to orange alongside the horizon. The burn will be more severe with each dose. The skin becomes delicate as tissue paper. If you were to stop taking the meds the rashes and hives would come back with a vengeance. So you swallow, swallow, swallow. If you stayed inside all day you’d smolder. So you sit out on your balcony for hours, sticking to your chair. Let the sun hold you. Let the rays light each shadow of your face. Dusk sweeps in. When you go inside you can still see yellow blots. You flush out the day with each blink of the eye. Before bed, as you’re washing your face you confront the blisters, the bubbles, and cracks. Peeking behind your peeling lips, the promise of new skin.