I.

If I could just take these heels off
Maybe I might find the courage
For these blistered lumps to ease over
To table eleven

It’s been seven months
And two hundred ten thoughts of you
If you counted too
I’ll believe in Santa again

I liked my dress when I bought it
But now, the flounces seem to wilt
They itch as I pace, breathe, agonize
Who are they, closer than I ever was?
The green satin strip crosses
And burns my chest

This place, it’s not mine
I chose the smaller gym
The one without football banners
An apostrophe no longer follows my name
But still I tether you with rope-burned fingers

I’m dancing, I’m hobbling
Spying until you sit
At table eleven
I mustn’t let the world stop me
Although you seem so much taller
Without heels on

II.

Hope has stretched two months more
So thin, I cannot feel it
And final word shoves me
Into a curdling pool of green tea latte

Lunchtime, no one asks
If something else has grown
I keep my wilted flower in my pocket
And speak lines bouncing off my mirrored face

My rage would be more doused
Had hope not been placed in my palm
Sticking the rope there longer
Than I should’ve wanted to hold you there

Next time I hear your scent
I’ll make sure I don’t wear heels
Or maybe
I’ll just fling them at your head