Combat Boots

I don’t wear the type of boots girls go pumpkin picking in - the brown leather that stretches up toward their thighs. I don’t wear the type of boots that whisper in a lipstick-outlined smile, “Look at me. Aren’t I pretty?” I don’t wear the type of boots girls wear to the club - the type they somehow dance in despite the three inches of added height. I try to lay low, stay under the radar, and if I’m lucky - look androgynous at best. It isn’t safe for women out there. I wear combat boots so I’m ready to run. I wear combat boots so I’m ready to fight. I wear combat boots because I have to dress appropriately not only for the war inside, but also because of the men around me. I dress for combat every time I leave the house. I feel unsafe, and as long as this sphere keeps spinning and tilting, I will continue to feel like a moving target. There is a laser beam on my chest at all times. Perhaps, if I move quickly enough, they’ll miss me when they open fire.