These ballet flats have been worked into the perfect mess, leather softened and stained, the lining soaked with every filthy secret my feet have left behind. They reek of hard days and toe jam, frayed at the edges, pinched and ruined by my weight and power. They are proof of what you worship, and they’re finally falling apart just for you.
You know your mouth waters at the thought of cleaning them; you ache to lap up the grime and praise every scuff. Get ready to serve, loser. Tell me what you’ll do to these flats for me, and maybe I’ll let you finally prove how badly you need to worship what I destroy.