Feet


Just because people have a romanticized notion of prom, doesn’t mean that it isn’t magical.

I stood in my room getting dolled up.

I dashed over to the mirror that hung on my bedroom wall above my dresser. I smiled at my reflection. I moved my arms in front of the mirror as my eyes dropped down to the nail polish on my fingernails. I took my hands to my dress, making sure it was unwrinkled. Call it OCD, or anxiety, but I would be damned if I had a wardrobe malfunction. It was a black strapless dress and just screamed at me the second I saw it at the local boutique shop on Main Street.

My mother hated it because it was too morbid, not that I cared.

I noticed my pill bottle on the dresser as I ripped open my closet. It was time for the most exciting thing that evening: picking a pair of shoes. I kneeled down on the ground, grabbing a pair of high heels. My heart thumped inside my chest. Two green shoes that were supported by tan ankles popped out at me. I looked up at my closet. I possessed an array of outfits, so it was quite possible that somebody was actually standing there, as the only thing that stuck out was the person’s feet.

My Mother barged through the door. “Oh darling! You look beautiful. I don’t even care about your gothic sense of style.”





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)