Hole-Toed Socks

There are holes

in the toes of all of my socks.

places where my feet don’t fit anymore, where my skin is pushing through the neon-coloured stretch fabric.

Where the rolling motion of my feet as I walk has pushed against the insides of my shoes for a few steps too many. The paths that I’ve walked have become too long, too much, more than thin, mismatched pieces of cloth can take.

Some of them have found their way to a box, ragged around the edges, stained, smelling of grease, and sweat, turpentine and sawdust; a perfect fit for a hand reaching into small corners.

Some of them will go back in the was – they aren’t that bad yet. Just a speck of skin, that will surely grow as threads unravel under movement.

Some of them are torn; rough, jagged flaps where punctures have torn them.


I have holes in all of my socks.

I got them from walking the places I like to go. I tore them apart by being un-containable. I am footsteps and friction.

Somtimes it ends in blisters, sometimes in blood.


Sometimes in ends in silence.


Sometimes it ends in contended weariness, pulling off memories, rolling them down, sliding them off and leaving them all over the floor to be gone through later.


4 thoughts on “Hole-Toed Socks

  1. Would you say they feel… thin. Sort of stretched, like… butter scraped over too much bread?

    The Road goes ever on and on
    Down from the door where it began,
    Now far ahead the Road has gone,
    And I must follow if I can,
    Pursuing it with eager feet,
    Until it joins some larger way
    Where many path and errands meet.
    And whither then? I cannot say.

    He used often to say there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: it’s springs were at every doorstep and every path was it’s tributary. “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door,” he used to say. “You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no telling where you might be swept off to.”


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