🦶🏼
lila pasaba horas en el parque, inmóvil en una banca, con un pájaro posado en el hombro como si fuera parte de ella o una advertencia. no miraba rostros. nunca. observaba pies.
los pies eran lo único que no fingía .
pies que dudaban, que arrastraban, que temblaban antes de dar el siguiente paso, como si sospecharan que avanzar era una forma de perderse. lila los leía en silencio, con una concentración que incomodaba; algunos notaban su mirada y escondían los suyos, como si temieran ser reducidos a eso.
el pájaro a veces picoteaba su cuello, impaciente. ella no reaccionaba.
entonces, sin aviso, la memoria.
su padre llegando de la cocina, oliendo a grasa vieja y cansancio absoluto, bebiendo como si quisiera borrarse desde adentro. y sus pies..antes abiertos, comprensibles…volviéndose otra cosa con los años: gruesos, amarillos, interminables.
trabajaban incluso quietos.
los recordaba en el sofá, una noche, un pie desnudo. el gatito acercándose, tembloroso, orinando sobre él sin interrupción. su padre no se movió. ni un músculo.
como si ya no estuviera ahí.
lila entendió tarde que esos pies no descansaban: se vaciaban.
en el parque, un hombre pasa. sus pies vacilan antes de avanzar.
el pájaro inclina la cabeza.
lila piensa que todos los pies, tarde o temprano, dejan de pertenecer a alguien .
y cuando eso ocurre, el cuerpo sigue caminando igual.
🦶🏼
she goes to crowds because that’s where the stink concentrates. heat plus pressure. feet marinating in their own bad decisions. socks soaked through with sweat that smells like pissy metal and old cheese. toenails thick, jagged, yellowed, cut too short or not cut at all, growing however the hell they want. heels split open like dry lips, packed with lint, skin flakes, city dirt, god knows what. the floor gets a dusting of human dandruff and nobody notices. nobody ever notices.
invisble nancy notices. she squats. she leans in. she stares like it’s her job because it kind of is. she watches someone scratch at athlete’s foot until the skin goes raw, then slide the foot back into the shoe like that solves something. she watches blisters burst quietly and bleed into fabric. feet are disgusting and loyal. they keep showing up.
the smells are intimate in a way sex never is. sour. rank. fungal. a whiff of rot that tells you a body’s been losing a slow war for years. she breathes through her mouth sometimes but mostly she lets it hit. it grounds her. it feels true.
no one says shit because no one sees her. that’s the blessing. she can follow a pair of fucked-up sneakers for blocks just to confirm her theory that the person inside is miserable and pretending otherwise. she’s right more often than not.
she thinks about doing worse things. touching. peeling. pressing a cracked heel until it splits again. not for pleasure. not even for cruelty. just to see what comes out. she doesn’t do it. thinking is enough. thinking about whiffing feet keeps her steady.
being invisible means she doesn’t have to fake disgust. she can be as vulgar as the body actually is. down here, people are honest without trying. they sweat, ooze, rot, and keep walking.
invisible nancy stays low. close to the filth. close to the part of everyone that never gets cleaned, never gets forgiven, and never stops carrying the rest of them anyway.
