Little White Sandals.

My little white sandals used to walk down that line. Unsure.
Worn edges.
Creased from all the use.
They were my little white sandals.
They carried me off to places, wonderful places.
Schools filled with lovely survivors from the early century,
even those from yesterday.


I used to love those little white shoes.
I look down, and I still see those little white shoes.
Because, I am still that 9 year old little girl.
Treading the ground softly,
careful to not step on anyone.
Careful to make everyone unhurt,
oh but I have hurt.
I didn't mean to do so.

Also, what makes you think you know me.
My intentions?
Do I know my intentions?
Yes.
No.
I think.
All of us trying to find the one responsible.
None of us finding the possible.

My integrity. It only matters to me, so why should I hurt for everyone.

I should marry Malcom X of my book for an hour, then run the streets of New York with James McBride.

Breaking inside my throat.

Incoherent thoughts, words. Incoherent.

Deer Creek's tragic wail woke me up.
Please,  now don't shut me up.