Barefoot

You’ve heard the common muse

They say “to walk a mile in their shoes,”

But I stand here barefoot.

Barefoot and bare hearted.

I had a pair once, when I was young and unafraid.

When I didn’t know about such things as sexism and rape

I wish I could escape, and travel back there

But I soon outgrew that pair,

for it belongs to the little girl in Tennessee.

I go to shoe stores, but they’re always out of the size for me.

I try on pair after pair, but none seem to fit.

This pair is too liberal, and that pair too conservative.

This pair is too loud and bold, and that pair too quiet and reserved.

In the same way that a man’s feet would never fit in my shoes,

So will I never fit into yours,

Destined to be Cinderella’s ugly step sister forever.

What they don’t tell you on TV is that the stepsister cut off her heel to fit into the shoes.

Not only have I lost my shoes, but I wonder, what am I cutting off to fit into unfamiliar shoes?

What parts of me am I ashamed of, and willing, even eager sometimes, to cut off?

I wish it was that easy.

If I could cut off my trauma and mental health,

Only to bleed out and be crippled the rest of my life, I would faster than a heartbeat.

Controversial, no?

Oh, how I would much rather be crippled and bleeding out, than to deal with the monsters that live inside my mind.

But no, I stand here barefoot, searching for my shoes to fill.

I’ve had shoes thrown at me, ones with ugly names.

Names so vile they asked me not to repeat them tonight.

Thrown at me from people I had thought that loved me.

No, I can’t walk a mile in their shoes,

And I can’t seem to find any that fit.

How dangerous it is to walk barefoot in Chicago, needles and broken glass fill the streets.

And I try to cross these streets, but walking barefoot in Chicago is not so easy.

It’s only when I fall on my knees with the realization that I was never strong or competent enough to walk on my own, that His love picks me up and carries me over needles and broken glass alike.

When my own feet failed, and I couldn’t find any shoes to fill, it was there that He was there for me.

Only when He picked me up, did I realize that He was there all along for me, reaching out His hand, that was nailed to cross for me.

Me and Jesus, we share the scars on our wrists.

His in imperfect circles, mine in jagged wisps

He lay on the cross, barefoot and bleeding, to protect my feet from bleeding.

He was pierced and punctured, carried a cross so He could carry me.

And now it is my choice: I can walk shamefully through needles and broken glass, or I can fall into his loving arms, outstretched on the cross for me.