On trying to rid oneself of the life-long habit of self-deprecation
The easy way to start, of course, would be
by telling you this poem is nothing much,
a poor unfinished thing, deserving just
the merest glance, a moment of your time,
if you should find yourself with no more
pressing thing to do, like filing down
that ragged nail, imposing order on
your cluttered desk, or flicking through
an ancient copy of Grazia.
But no, I’m going to do a harder thing.
These words are who I am.
Read me now.