As a woman, I have created two selves. Complex individuals that twist and grow together like ivy vines or like the tendons deep beneath my skin. One self that is the truest and most loving self, the other, a self that feels it must be beautiful. Beautiful as defined by a society of mini-skirts, make-up, and high heels.
When I wear my favorite pair of heels, I am feeling vulnerable. Feeling insecure, but standing proud upon those four inches of feminine stiletto. When I wear my favorite pair of heels, I fill my lips with red lipstick. Something about accentuating my femininity makes me feel like I can conquer anything. But to conquer with sexuality really disagrees with my other self. My barefoot self. When I am bare foot, I am content. Feeling at peace, standing with my feet closer to the ground.
I have two different kinds of friends, two different parts of town.
The difference between a vodka cranberry and a bottle of cabernet.
Guess it just depends on my feet.
When those world collide.
Those who know me bare footed are never meant to see me in my favorite pair of heels. Goes to show you can’t allow yourself to live torn. So you saw me, mini-skirt, face full of make up, standing on my peep-toed, black stilts.
I felt as if I had to defend my heels as a silliness, because girls don’t need to be objects.
I know that.
And when I was asked if my favorite pair of heels made me feel more confident, I said they made me feel uncomfortable.
And at that moment, they did.
However, when I was tucked away in that other planet, I did feel in control.
Cause I was looking good.
And people were looking.
I knew I wasn’t being judged and it’s funny that my favorite pair of heels made me feel even more insecure than I felt when I put them on. Even though I was determined to walk into one of those festering breeding grounds to find somebody who wanted me, as if that goal would leave me feeling any sort of satisfaction.
The souls of my bare feet would be disappointed.
My favorite pair of heels are sitting on the living room floor, right where I tossed them after that long, bare-footed walk home.
I think I am going to give up on shoes and watering holes for a while.
Something has got to give and I know it really won’t take much.
A broken heart doesn’t need to be traipsing around town in four inch heels and red lipstick.
It needs to be at home learning how to play the guitar.
That is beautiful as defined by myself and that is the kind of beautiful I’d rather be.