Sometimes I look down at the tops of my feet and see the soft folds of my skirt floating somewhere between my knees and my ankles.
My feet are almost never flesh-colored. They are purple and black and white and red and blue and grey and burgundy because winters are harsh on skirts. I don’t like to be cold. After a while it just becomes normal, these oddly colored feet of mine. The toes cease to be five individuals and become a somewhat disjointed union.
I wonder if the lack of definition I seek will someday become an aversion to even bareness. Will I be swallowed up in tights and leggings, making a statement in bright colors?
“Today I feel purple.”
I have ceased to wonder whether my tights match my skirt match my shirt match my camisole (I never bothered about the shoes) because I found my expression not in the accidental colors but in the forms of their coverings.
What do they mark me as?
Here there is a lawn outside of a church and a window inside of that church that when viewed from the outside looks as if the inside is engulfed in flames. A Church on Fire.
Outside that church inside that lawn I like to spin around and feel the hem of my skirt make patterns in the air. I feel hands in hands and the potential of kisses yet to come. All is as it ought to be.
Claire is a freshman theology student with a penchant for poetry and an ongoing struggle with prose. She likes making funny faces at babies and generally prefers to be as anonymous as possible, so consider this an adventure.