for Imogen
Before the polished sand of her mirror
Freckled and pale
Limbs and moles as she remembered
Temptation
in dismantling
her self a specimen for
dissection
A tally of flaws
How radical would it be
to love instead?
Were that even allowed
Unsure,
starting small
with only known things
Affirming
feeling
Love for her nose
these ankles
elbows
are ok
I guess
And on she builds
Credence like jenga rising
higher
on the brink of collapse
Unlike Emily,
compass & chart
Are far from futile in this
untraveled territory
Mania or self-love?
is she latching on to hope or
is she hopeful?
Like those bees
drunk on the nectar of confusing life
she stands bare to my life’s most ardent critic
And brashly
in the face of proscribed loathing
she finds beauty
And soon like the butterfly
is glittered in this magic dust
known to most
as confidence.
by Clementine Yost ©
