New Shoes

I don’t like my shoes.

I don’t like my new shoes, or my old shoes, so I keep buying more new shoes.

I want those shoes, the ones that model is wearing.

I want those super-chunky, super-trendy yellow platform sneakers.

Then I’d love my shoes.

I want to dance, but he won’t let me.

He won’t let me go.

He won’t let me dance.

He won’t let me flirt with other boys or kiss other girls.

But I did it anyway and that’s how I know it’s time for Sunday.

It’s time for the airport.

It’s time for goodbye.

It’s time for you to go.

It’s time for me to dance.

I painted my toenails green this week because the color shocked me. It would shock you too, if you knew. Don’t worry, I’ll paint over it white. I’ll paint over all my mistakes and then I’ll paint a red smile over my frowning lips, like a circus clown.

Don’t look back, please. I beg you.

Don’t look at my green toenails.

Don’t look at my red painted smile.

Don’t look at my hair, or my lips, or my chewed-up fingers, for they are no longer yours.

They belong to the moon now

to the riptides and hurricanes

to the whirlwinds of chance

and to the earthquakes of change.

I have been unleashed, and no man, woman, or god shall retain me.

I am ready to jump out of airplanes.

I am ready to surf tidal waves.

I am ready to buy my chunky yellow platform sneakers.

I am ready for bed, but I can’t sleep because he keeps popping up in my mind and his name keeps popping up on my phone screen and his face keeps popping up on my Instagram.

Ding ding ding, he needs me.

Ding ding ding, he’s texting me.

Ding ding ding he is not mine anymore and that’s why it’s ok to turn off my fucking phone and dance around my room in my underwear.