Why I don't leave the house (teen girl edition)

I was ready by 11 a.m.

But I just couldn’t leave through the door.

By 12, I got up from the couch.

Rushed to my bedroom,

pulled two pairs of socks from the drawer.

Rolled them into this jury-rigged, spherical wannabe of a shape.

Shoved them into my shoes.

And... I did the math:

9 cm from the heels + 4–5 cm (but let’s round it to 3) from the socks—

that’s around 12 cm.

But by then,

any moral dejection felt better than reality.

So I was good to go.

By 13:00, I got out the door

(I just couldn’t find my keys—or my dignity).

And with every step I took, I was praying not to fall.

Poetically fitting, I guessed one of the socks wasn’t placed properly—

or something like that.

My ankle tilted at a 13-degree angle.

But who cares about it?

I wasn’t going back.

Because pain is beauty.

Or beauty is pain.

Or something like that...

By 13:10, I took my first fall.

Twisted my right ankle a bit.

But luckily, no one saw.

I kept walking, bright smile on my face,

while my mind was reeling from the earthquake of that little fall.

An evacuation siren blared through me:

“They’re all laughing at you...”

“You’re pathetic. You dress like a whore, but God, you’re not sexy—just desperate.”

“Another fail. What more can you do?”

By 13:13, I was crossing the sidewalk,

and I felt my leg giving in.

So I started running—

just to make it before the cars were released.

And then—

of course, I had to take one big fall at the end

and bruise my knee.

Tried to get up and brush it off,

but my heel slipped again.

My arms were sore.

And there were so many drivers watching.

So I stayed there, on my knees.

And an old lady came to help me.

By 13:15, I was explaining that I wasn’t drunk—

that it was just the heat and the walk.

I trailed after her, insisting,

trying to convince her I knew how to walk in heels—

that I wasn’t just another desperate kid.

Of course, she didn’t buy it.

By 13:18, I saw this couple strolling past us,

and suddenly, I gave up the pursuit of redemption.

I just started bawling my eyes out.

“Would I ever be pretty enough to be seen?”

“What makes that girl so much better than me?”

By 13:25, I got on the subway

and kept repeating to myself:

“That’s why we don’t get out, Elena.”

“That’s why we don’t leave the house.”

“That’s why we don’t set ourselves up with hope.”

So now, at 1:37 p.m., I’m writing this poem—

the one that was supposed to be about how love is a “poverty premium.”

But pain is pain. Never beauty.

And my therapist is booked this week.

So at least this poem should feel real.