Shoelaces and Survival

I was taught to tie my shoes

like I’d tie my fate —

double knots so the world

wouldn’t trip me twice.

Mama said,

“You don’t run from storms,

you anchor your soles.”

So I laced my trauma

tight to my skin

and made peace

with blistered beginnings.

Every morning,

I yank those cords like heartstrings

pulling myself

back from the edge.

Some days,

my laces drag in the blood

of battles I never picked —

still, I loop them clean,

tuck them beneath

the tongue of silence.

Once, I knelt to tie them

on a day that wanted me gone.

That knot saved me.

Not magic — muscle memory.

I remembered I mattered.

That’s the trick.

See —

we don’t walk out of fire;

we thread our steps

through ash

and keep going

because we learned

to bind brokenness

and call it

balance.

So no —

I don’t wear boots,

I wear scars

with soles.

And if you ever see me stumble,

know this:

I trip,

I bleed,

but damn it—

I rise,

because my shoelaces

know survival.