The Glove

A poem about self acceptance

Self acceptance.

I always find this time of year a hard time to make peace with my body. My logical head is telling me to get in the gym and eat well whilst my ancestral instinct is saying “stay in, cosy up and fill up”.

Like many women, most of my life I’ve struggled with body image. The older I get, the more able I am to embrace my imperfections. It’s about finding balance between caring enough to look after yourself, but not judging yourself too harshly.

I find it helps to try and think of my physical being in two ways.

Firstly, as a strong, practical, nurturing tool and secondly, as vessel for pleasure. This takes the pressure off a need to conform to societal expectations whilst encouraging me to give a shit.

If you don’t already love your beautiful face and hard working body, why not start now?

The Glove

I found myself some tight clothes

In a drawer I label ‘then’

A teeny bra of sugar cups

A flash-of-fire night slip

I poured my ugly sister

Into a Cinderella self

Grieving satin chances

Mourned her rotting slipper

.

I got myself some big clothes

That felted me, an attic

They blanketed my loathing

Marked me safe from attention

I snuggled as a kitten

In the weave of a dark mother

Until he sees it is a sack

And knows instantly, he’s drowning….

.

And then, I bought somebody’s gloves

A charity shop find

Plunged my ends into the tips

And wondered if she’d died

Had to take them off again

Thinking of my hand in hers

The stretch was moulding to my shape….

My fingers suckling on her ‘never’

.

And deeper in the leather

Lay familiar, diamond patterns

A cow that came before the glove

Who once stood, happy in a meadow

So, I opened up my wardrobe

Chose my brightest, truest colour

In honour of my goddess

And this strong body that keeps going