I hate socks and shoes and all things in between that others insist I should suffocate my feet with.

 

Let me explain this a bit better

because I don’t want to come across as bitter.

I do not enjoy the feeling of cotton tickling my toes with every step.

I do not appreciate the feeling when a wet sock sticks to my heels

or when I have to sit in a heated classroom in furry winterboots that

my mother bought me so I couldn’t leave them at home.

 

I love being barefoot because my feet get to be free, and when my feet are free, I am free.

My feet are the ones that took me to meet my parents’ open arms,

to see my first school, took me to the forest to listen to all the songs and tales the small birds had to tell. 

 

Sure, they may have caused me to fall and bruise my knee and break my nose,

but in all honesty, those aren’t their fault. 

And sure, it might not be as great in the morning in the winter,

or when I accidentally step on a splinter.

 

Worse if it’s the same morning,

but even so, I am not mourning.

 

I love tickling my toes in a lake,

still cold from the winters wake,

and even though the mud from the shore may cake on my feet,

there’s still something in me that likes to scrape off that clay and think;

“You’re free”, but then I have to slip on a sandal and continue, “unlike me.”