I bought the boots because they looked right

I bought the boots because they looked right,

ignoring the way the heel started to rub.

Two miles in, I was walking on needles,

limping past the grocery and the pub.

Now the sock is stuck to the wound.

I peel it back and find a clouded dome,

a bubble of fluid, a pocket of heat,

that followed me all the way home.

I pop it with a needle I didn't clean.

The air hits the raw, pink floor of the skin,

and I hiss at the sudden, stinging bite

of the penance for wanting to win.