Put on your combat shoes. We’re going.

Not your combat boots, although I’m not judging you if your combat shoes are boots but when I say combat boots, you hear the bravery of men, to walk toward death, unflinching.

And your combat shoes, your combat shoes are a different kind of brave.

The brave it takes to get up every morning and walk away from death toward life even though you know life is full of sharp edges and rusty nails, even though you are pulled toward drowning by the weight of it. Those shoes will get you through that mire, through the thousand mosquito bites and over the rotting logs, and you’ll look fucking fabulous.

Your combat shoes are the shoes you borrowed from your roommate for the job interview, the job you got, and she said you could keep them after that. The shoes you took to Dorian’s Shoe Repair down on sixth and he asked you lady do you know you’re spending fifty bucks to keep a pair of twenty dollar shoes and you said yeah but they look fucking fabulous.

Put on your combat shoes, the red shoes you bought when you didn’t really have the money but there they were in the window and you could not walk by them One. More. Time. And you ate rice and ramen but you looked fucking fabulous.

Put on your combat shoes and spike-heel swivel-hip down the street past men who want to remind you that you are small but in your combat shoes you are not small. You are not small.

You – Are – Fucking – Fabulous

In your combat shoes you look fucking fabulous and nobody has to know how hard it was to crawl out from under the covers to face this day and shout into the wind of it, into the constant pressure of voices, to be heard, to stand up and to walk with your head held high. In your combat shoes you never give way.

In your combat shoes, they get out of your way because you are walking here, you are taking up space and you are fucking fabulous.

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