They say a pedicure is essential,
as if survival depends
on painted toes and softened heels.
But my feet already know the road.
They are cared for in quiet ways,
without bubbles, without polish.
Why should I pay a stranger
to hold what I already carry.
Their hands on my hands,
their eyes on my hair,
their clippers at my skin.
I call that intrusion, not indulgence.
I have learned that care
is not always the same as touch.
A pulse taken is not comfort.
A file against my heel
is not healing.
Some call it pampering.
I call it unnecessary choreography,
a ritual I never auditioned for.
Let others sink into chairs,
wrap their trust in foamed water.
I will tend to myself in silence,
my steps unvarnished,
yet entirely my own.
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