The Golden Rust on My Skin

They say the city is built on steel and rot, a rusted engine that never stops grinding. But standing here at the edge of the skyline, watching the sun bleed out into an orange bruise across the horizon, I feel something else entirely.

The wind cuts through my hair like raw wire, but it doesn't sting; it feels electric against skin heated by a thousand miles of asphalt and lies. This isn't just heat from some burning star. It's the friction of two lives grinding together until sparks fly off in every direction.

I wear this black blazer not as armor to keep you out, but as a warning that I'm worth fighting for. Underneath? Just lace and vulnerability, soft things waiting to be consumed by something harder than me. You found the flaw in my metal plating today,
and now we're burning bright before everything goes cold again.

Editor: Rusty Cog