The lament of the rainboots


Kaitlin Hsu

Creative Commons

by Kaity Gee, Wingspan Asst. Editor-in-Chief

“It’s not you, it’s me,” you say. “It’s not meant to be. Just not today, babe,” you say.

You say a lot of things. That doesn’t change the fact that I only exist when you need me.

It’s too hard to write this. I’m squeaking, tearing up, I think I’m breaking.

Pretending to not care is the hardest part about this. I guess I’m just that person that everyone replaces with the change of the season. I don’t know why I always come back anyways. I guess I’m just here for the good days.

Our best days are your worst days. The days when the fog climbs up San Francisco hills, the gray sky eclipses the blue, and the clouds cry–oh god, I think I’m crying (if that’s possible)–those are our best days. I miss those days.

I know I’m not the most attractive. Knee high galoshes don’t exactly go with everything, and I see you looking after sleeker models. Sparkly summer sandals, white-laced Converse, and those smug, sneering Yeezies. Who names themselves after a celebrity, after the son of God? How much more pretentious can you get?

I see you pick them over me. I share a crammed, closet-sized home with them, for god’s sake. I’m always your last choice, the one you settle on out of necessity.

And when you do choose me, you bring me through the mud. You drag me through dirty waters, and I know this sounds like I’m accusing you of everything but who else is to blame in this conditional relationship?

So this is me, telling you that I need more than this but I need you. I need you to tell me you love me, tell me that we still have our good days ahead of us. Let me be the one to ground you on slippery sidewalks and in precarious weather conditions. Let me be yours.