Black boots and purple thread

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When I was a little girl I had black cowgirl boots with purple thread.

I loved them.

It think it must've been the purple thread, when I was a child I was fascinated by the different.

I liked things that stood out.

I wore them as much as my mother would let me. The purple thread began to fray and fade. 

I cried when I couldn't shove my feet into them anymore. My toes ached from the pinched end of shoes too small. I tried to hide it from my mom, I wanted to keep wearing them. I wanted them even though I outgrew them and they caused me pain and discomfort. Life is like that I guess.

I miss the little girl with black boots and purple thread. I'm worried about her.

I want to protect her.
I want to warn her.

Pills crushed into dust falling where I walk like pixie dust, a braided necklace, things worse than the scraped knees she's accustomed to stops her from coming closer. 

I want to tell her to look away from me.

But I can still see her black boots with purple thread and her concerned eyes. I can hear her soft voice asking me, "why are you so sad?"

Unable to look her in the eye I tell her "I'm trying to shove myself into a life that no longer fits me."

I see her black boots often. 

Each time I see them I want to cry out "This isn't me." but it is. 

And she must be so disappointed.

Can you outgrow yourself?

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