My shoes are too loud. I hear the tap tap tap as I walk across the drama room floor. It's supposed to be silent. Too loud, they seem to scream. They bring only attention and eyes.
One day I'll no longer have elephant shoes. And I won't have to stand out like a Christmas tree in September. No more elephant shoes means no more eyes.
No more elephant shoes means freedom and and no more insecurities. It's the only way I'll be free and I'll be free when the sun goes down and I play guitar softly trying not to wake anyone up. But those are my elephant shoes. Dreams are my elephant shoes. Loneliness and fear are my elephant shoes. The headphone buzz and hope for a better future are my elephant shoes. So many pairs of elephant shoes, and not enough feet.
They are too loud walking in hallways. Sometimes there are too many eyes and to many footsteps on the linoleum floor. But sometimes elephant shoes are military boots. And sometimes elephant shoes aren't elephant shoes at all.
YOU ARE READING
Disenchanted
PoetryJust a a bunch of The House On Mango Street inspired vignettes/short stories Written in two parts: Loser Girl and Letters To Marza *Trigger warning: this story may touch on abuse, assault, self harm, and depression*
