Worn

I do not wear brown.

Which makes the boots a

Puzzle. Sturdy, dark,

Brown. They were an

Impulse buy. Doubt

Flutters like a

Moth caged in my

Ribs. They’re not

Me. Lower, steady my

Heart beats scorn at such

Vanity. Identity at the

Mercy of shoes? For

God’s sake.

Hungry

Moth flaps, shivering

Dust from its wings into

My chest cavity. It’s like

Seeing myself as an infant,

Squalling bundle of

Insatiable wants.

I’ll fox that yowling sprout.

It doesn’t know what

I’ve learned: that worn

Long enough they will

Become me.