I don't like my feet. I never have, and I quite honestly doubt that I ever will. Ever since I was a child, my mother has told me I had grappling hooks for feet. They padded quietly over every surface, over everything tangible. I danced across the wood floors of our apartment in bare feet. I hated having to wear the shoes that pinched when I went to school as a kid. My mom would pitch a fit every time she caught my naked feet. She'd worry about how I'd get sick and how I need to learn to take care of myself better. God forbid I forget to put on shoes in front of company. As a result, I learned to be affronted by them. I never let anyone see them, and I don't like to look at others' feet. Feet are like internal organs; no one should be able to see them.

So I buy shoes. I buy them consistently and without a care for the cost. I buy them in every style, in every color, in every pattern. While I traverse this world followed by my serial shoe shopping, I've found a critical flaw in my desires and, dare I say, in my anatomy. My feet don't fit perfectly in shoes. I do not have an exact shoe size. The numerical symbols marked on each box are irrelevant. A seven is too large, and a six is too small, and half sizes don't seem to fit quite right either.

Every time I buy my own pair, I'm confronted by the symbolism of this. I watch everyone go about their shopping, slipping their feet into what look like a perfect pair, and I silently hope to feel that way too. In the beginning I thought that maybe the more I wore a pair, they'd adjust to my foot size, but I've worn pairs down to their soles. I've taken them with me throughout every step of my day, from the moment I get dressed to the moment I undress, but my feet never fit quite right.

I don't have big feet by any means. In fact, the truth is quite the opposite. They're small. With too much room to move, my toes constantly slip into a different position within my shoe. I'm reminded that they're not for me, that I don’t really fit.

The dresses I wear fall perfectly on my shoulders and complement my collar bones accordingly. The pearl earrings I put in every morning shine with a highlighting sheen. My belts cinch at my waist in a slimming manner. My coat buttons up all the way to my throat- but somehow the cold always manages to get in.

My shoes. My shoes remind me that every step I take is not meant for me. I do not fit my own shoes. They are not mine. There has been nothing made for me. I do not exist. I won't exist. Every time I maneuver my body downtown or to class, I am faced with the knowledge that the journey is not my own and it will never be recorded as such.

Still, I refuse to walk barefoot. I cannot be the one who begins her journey unprotected and open to her shame. My feet have scars. They're scars that came from my ruthless childhood, where I mistook thorns for roses and danced along briar patches. I was a childhood rebel, ready to claim the word as mine with each naked step, but now I walk with the knowledge that this world is an inheritance that does not belong to me.