These Feet

These feet are

mine.

They don’t have to “march up” or walk to the beat of anybody’s drum but to their own,

and to me.

I am every part of myself, internally and

externally.

I am connected to these feet, just as I am connected to my own heart and soul—to my mind and spirit.

I’m not anybody’s twin or a manufactured copy of anything.

And I’m certainly as authentic as these “old” vintage heels are that I’m wearing!

They’re true to their era, true of their own time–

even now.

I often see my father’s feet when I look at my own set of feet, because these feet have the same appearance/shape of his broad feet and toes. They might even resemble his mother’s feet; and perhaps a couple of his sisters’–

I think they do.

But these are still mine.

These feet are mine.

They’ve stood in and walked through enough shit. They’ve been genuinely real.

They’ve had to be.

Life calls for it. Anybody old enough should/could know it by now.

Life is too often–

“shitty”.

Humbly adding: there’s more of that to go through–

because life’s

that way–the good with a whole lotta bad…

Just like me, these feet don’t have to prove their worth to another human being. They’ve earned their salt, their being.

Nobody owns me–

or anyone else over another person.

My substance isn’t property or an object for “fickle” “petty” emotions and abusive words out of any judgmental mouth or frame of mind–especially out of the mouth of a person who doesn’t authentically know me.

But who cares about that really. My march is my own, not another’s.

Admittedly, these feet are connected to the sensory parts of this person

who can lash out a word or ‘two‘ in strong defense of particular words that should have never been said–

and repeatedly spoken–

understandably so–

if you were in

these shoes.

If this person doesn’t speak up, this person has no feet. These feet have to be heard, felt—stood up for.

I stand up for these feet, because this is my life. These feet are my life, every part of me.

Sure, I could lose a limb; a joint, a finger, a leg or toe–

but while I have every member of my body on me and of me,

this

is

me.

These

are my feet,

the substance of me.

And nobody has to like it.