As the calathea

Much deeper than fat

and hatred of skin

It is loathing

of the whole

self

And so in love and ink

I reclaim

That which should,

but never truly felt

as though it were

Mine

Always one step away

just out of my grasp

For what is the distance

between a trot and a canter

That small gap

the cavern between

belief and hate

A bidding war, of the mind

Geometric

Calculating volume

off by litres

The rosy goggles of past

vie with the distortion framed scrutiny

of now

What is true?

Where is real?

Smug clicks of tape measure’s recoil

What is wrong

with me?

And then the light

only small

Glittering

Its ultimatum

to breathe

Desperate for its touch

To feel warmth

chase the fog

Wholeness

of self

I comply

Breathing

I fill

like water seeping

dry soil of neglected rubber trees

stray roots clambering

over my edge

But then

as the calathea

her pinstripe suit

in salutation greets the sun

I stand

Proud

Inhabiting

My self

The farthest reaches tingling

with the energy

of Life.

by Clementine Yost ©

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