The Kind Of Shoes You Burn.

We had been sitting there, smoking cigarettes. I guess, trying to ease into the thought, that we were going to go back out there again. Catching our bearings in some sort of way. Bracing ourselves. Even if we didn’t want to admit it to each other.

“Can I come with you? I’ve never seen anything like this before. I wanna be there.” Looking over at the little bird standing next to me. Let out a sigh that’s  tarnished with judgement and shake my head. Her curls, well not so much curls, more like frizzy waves of mousey blond hair,  are pulled back in a tight ponytail and her t-shirt is ridiculously oversized. She’s waiting for my answer, looking at me with this half-smile.

” Are you serious?” What kind of person asks to tag along in a robbery. The same kind of person who slits their wrists and decides to slap you in the face, that’s who. I’ve never really liked her, but I’m immediately aware of the hypocrisy held in that thought, and shoot my self down with a kind of personal disgust. ” Yeah, I guess, if you want to.” The whole thing is a sick mess anyways.

When I’m walking down the street a short time later, this disturbing sense will come over me, and I’ll feel like we’re in some kind of sick “show and tell” time. Like you used to have in school, except this isn’t in school. It’s the middle of the night, and you’re  scouring the streets looking for someone to rob. It’s a messed up feeling, walking around in the dark, waiting to cross paths with someone who feels “right” to rob. How does a person pick? Just typing out that question makes my stomach turn, at the same time,  I can’t help but remember what it felt like. It’s a heavy feeling. It’s lonely. Cold and dark. It also, awakens an animal that lives inside you. One that you didn’t even know existed, until you travelled in those shoes. The kind of shoes you burn, when you swear to walk a cleaner road. And so, the question had to be asked, how does one pick?

For me, it was always a man. Always.

It made it easier if he hit on me. If he approached me, in a sexual gesture, it was probably going to happen. Whisky breath and hands. And part of me, could justify it. That was my little green light. This quiet rage would push itself through my chest, and that was it. It was just, easier that way. At least that’s how had been up until now. Tonight, I wouldn’t do the picking. She, would pick. And, the moment  she runs across the street, taking deep strides to catch up behind him, and reaching down into her pants to pull out that frightening silver hatchet, I’ll feel it deep in my gut. This cold ice brick of regret.

You know how people always say, ” When I woke up this morning, I would have never thought his was going to happen.”

Ya, no shit.

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3 thoughts on “The Kind Of Shoes You Burn.

  1. I have gone all the way to the beginning of your blog, and read every post now, including this one! I feel we have so much to talk about and I have so many questions for you.
    Your writing is beautiful and not only because of your writing style, its beautiful because its real. The most talented and imaginative people in the world could not hope of writing such a masterpeice, and it is so because you have came out of this and it is honest and truthful in a way so little is in todays world

    x

    • Well, now that we’re Facebook friends you can message me anytime!!! Feel free to ask me whatever you want, I’d love to chat. Thank you so much for posting all these lovely comments..it’s so sweet and thoughtful. Even makes me a bit shy haha ❤

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