I wrote this piece when I was still a public health major and more interested in writing about shoes than programmed cell death. It’s a work in-progress but feel free to read it!
I am a pair of mud-marbled running shoes. Blood-soaked seams, sanded-down soles dusted in rouge…kicked, thrown, flipped, pounded. Pounded into ruts, I clench on to the sweat and grind with the grit, rebelling with the grace of lopsided-tied bows, kissing the ice-glazed pavement too hard.
I am an ally to the artisan, a pair of wilting Birkenstocks. I’m love-sick for the baby-soft blades of green, now sea-sick from the puddle of an ordinary day. Clumsy wishes blown from my cork bottoms, still hoping for a playful wink of yellow between the turgid clouds…but they stream plain drops and I fumble through. Maybe tomorrow…tomorrow I’ll avoid the puddle.
I am a pair of blue suede slippers, a frayed cotton hug for the moments in between. Monotony is the greatest comfort I provide. There is no obvious desire within my cotton ribbing for a wink or whistle of natural light. I plant my thinning soles into the speckled rug and let life click by on the uneven pavement below.
I am a pair of playful, plaid-clad rain boots. Puddles of funk and shaken sludge add to my fashion as I fashion a little magic from the heavy wet. I squeak without sound mind and kick up the leftovers of a grungy afternoon, striving, tripping, searching for a stroke of gold.
I am a pair of tan leather knee highs, infused with a deep love for crisp, golden autumn. Miss boat shoes has got nothing on me. I swing swiftly through life to the beat of the New York minute. Not a second is wasted as I shuffle along with a caffeinated clonk, getting a buzz from the perfectly chilled air.
I am a pair of strappy heels…a class-act without a warranty. Click-clack, I’ll play tag with the pavement until your ears start ringing. The atmosphere tries to cling to my clumsy clack but I stomp with purpose and feminine ferocity, winking at the stars with each click, shaking off some loose glitter with each clack.
I am a collection of soles, leaving prints in milky mud, speckled rugs, and rock-hard pavement. I seek and click and sometimes tip with a colorful clack but I’ll always tread with a sole chalk-full of soul.