My Shoes

Brinish Figueroa

To walk in my shoes means sometimes it’s hard to give a shit.

To walk in my shoes means having one foot in Santo Domingo and the other in the South Bronx.

To walk in my shoes means getting judged because of my attitude, without knowing what’s going on in my mind.

To walk in my shoes means that some people absorb my energy in the way that they act.

To walk in my shoes means that there is something deep inside me that keeps coming back up, even when I try to push it down.

To walk in my shoes feels like a lone wolf, separated from my pack.

To walk in my shoes feels like I have a hand over my mouth. As much as I try to say what’s going on in my mind, I can’t speak.

To walk in my shoes is like a funeral. Everything is black and white.

To walk in my shoes feels like an old coat in the back of the closet always forgotten.

To walk in my shoes feels like a light night with dark mornings. To walk in my shoes is to visit home, laughter, and a neighborhood that feels like family.

To walk in my shoes is to have cousins that feel more like siblings, reunited every summer.

To walk in my shoes is to have two true homes: one filled with sunshine and reggaetón and the other with tall buildings and graffiti art.