What They Held

They're still in the back of the closet,

the pair I wore through

the applications, the interviews,

the waiting.

The heel is scuffed. One lace

is fraying where it meets the hole.

There's dried mud in the treads,

from a walk I took to clear my head

when I didn't get it.

Or did get it.

I can't remember.

It doesn't matter.

What matters is these shoes

held my feet through something.

They know the weight of my anxiety.

They've been on the floor of offices

where someone was deciding

who I am.

I can't throw them away.

Not because they're good.

They're not.

But because they're proof

that I was there,

that I tried,

that I walked into rooms

in these exact shoes

and either failed or didn't

or failed anyway.

My hand won't open the trash.

The shoes stay.

Waiting for a person who won't

wear them again.