The Shoes I Lace Myself Into

I found them tucked beneath a cracked mirror, black leather dull with the dust of old grief, heels worn down from turning away— a shape molded by silence, not comfort. I wear them when the air grows sharp with voices, when praise feels like a trap, and critique, a stone under my tongue. I walk away before I bruise. These shoes make me taller. Sometimes, I lift my chin like a blade, cutting the room before it cuts me, every step echoing with defensiveness. I find my kind in shadowed corners, cliques of scuffed pride and spiteful glances, laughing through locked doors, afraid of what opening it might undo. We call it discernment. But, it’s merely our fortress with no windows, where every wall is lined with our cracked mirrors… reflecting only what we wish to see. And still, I cinch them tighter. These shoes, my ritual, my retreat, though they don’t fit like they used to, I don’t know how to walk without them. They’re mine, but not only mine. Anyone can slip them on in moments of retreat. They wait by my door like old habits do, ready for anyone who'd rather feel safe than heard. 12/27/24