I liked your red high heels.
They made me smile, and they bent my mind, but I liked them. Your feet probably hurt. You said they didn’t. You have blisters still. All for the sake of fashion. Or maybe just the sake of your red high heels. You tell me to quiet down when my feet hurt. Or when anything hurts. I think that just makes it hurt worse.
You used to give me daisies. I was little then. You said that when the petals started to fall I should make a wish and blow each one away. I made lots of wishes that never came true. Sometimes they were about you. Sometimes they were about your red high heels. I wanted you to take them off. Men did mean things to you when you wore them. I could hear it from under my bed. But they told you that you were pretty.
I stole your red high heels. Men do mean things to me now sometimes, but they usually tell me I’m pretty. Or at least sexy. Then they leave, and I don’t cry, because I know I’m pretty. Your red high heels are a little loose on me still, but I think my feet will swell soon. A man did something pretty bad to me, and I’ve heard that a few months later your feet swell.
But I guess when I’m that big I can’t wear your red high heels anyway. Men won’t think I’m pretty, just fat. I’ll just be a fat girl wearing your red high heels.
I’ll never let my daughter wear those red high heels.