shoe
Once I was lazy and stepped into my shoe without proper care, which folded the fabric inside the heel tab. Every time I wear these shoes I can feel the lump against my Achilles' heel reminding me of the one rushed morning when I looked away and made an irrevocable change. It's damaged inside. I feel it as I walk. Just the right foot. Sometimes it feels as if I'm limping because of it, like the mistake is moving into my tendons. It bothers me a lot but I try not to think about it. I've noticed that the more I get used to it, the more this strange expectation grows: somewhere in my subconscious, I assume that my shoe will heal, that it is a part of my organism. That in the natural course of the world, the shoe will one day grow itself a new heel tab. I'll wake up one morning and I won't feel that fold anymore, the one hidden under the leather, the discomfort that is invisible to the world. But then I remember— it won't. Shoes are not skin. They don't heal.