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.