foot poem as per request

these feet are for walking
for walking all over me
but wait
i say
that's impossible!
how is it that my own feet tread on my own body
i am no gymnast, let me tell you

who says these feet are mine, however?
mine? no. yours, surely.
tread. tread. tread. the feet they don't bother
it's the principle that makes me sick
fucking sick

keep walking
and i'll turn to coal
hot coal
but i'm far from the truth, you know,
i could never burn the soles of yours
because the soles of yours are your
fucking vehicle
and the souls of yours couldn't possibly burn.

you get the picture.

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it's funny. i sit. i wait. i know that my topic is given on this purple
sheet fluttering in the fan behind my head but somehow i must make feet
turn to self
everything
to self
cannot just be feet, now can they? because what a fucking metaphorical trick! it would be
to use feet as feet and not as tools. fucking tools. to bear down to capture. to see inside.
always looking inside. inside. ah. maybe they are just feet. maybe they are tired. maybe i'll let you put them up for the night and won't comment on your laziness. maybe i'll paint those bland fucking toenails so that when you look down, you think of me. every time. i like metallic pink for a starter. put your feet up. i'll let you stay awhile. but i won't move. i won't ask you leave. or stay. i'll just sit there. and offer to paint.