the WAlk

Jahly Rock

To walk a mile in my shoes is to be held to high expectations. To walk a mile in my shoes is to not know anything but success. To walk a mile in my shoes is to be consumed by stress and anxiety.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to not know who I am, or what I’m doing, to be lost and confused continuously walking until the soles of my shoes give out.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel my laces too tight, my feet screaming for air, for sweet release.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel suffocated, like I’ve been wrapped in chains and thrown in the deepest part of the ocean.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to not feel anything anymore, to not have emotions—nothing that’s real anyway—to cry from overwhelming work, to wish and plead that I could just disappear and never return.

To walk a mile in my shoes is to feel numb, to feel guilty of feeling numb, to feel ashamed of not living up to expectations.

To walk a few feet in my shoes is to hate the world, hate myself for hating those I love without a valid reason.

To put on my shoes is to want to run away and never stop running, to leave this life as soon as the rain clears, to get on a train without knowing or caring about the destination.

My shoes carry all the doubt, the hate, the worry, the shame. It tracks inside the house like mud after the rain. No matter how much I wipe my feet, the dirt still follows me.

I hate my shoes.

I leave my shoes at the door, but the feelings transfer into my socks. Now I hate my socks.

Walking in my socks makes me feel alone.

Walking in my socks makes me want to scream, yell, shout for sweet release.

Anything to escape the constant harassment that my shoes passed down to my socks.

Walking around in my socks makes me feel like the world is muted, gray, cold. As if I’m muted. gray. cold.

Walking in my socks is a pain, more of a pain than walking in my shoes.