Imposter Syndrome

By Emily Cullen

She thinks it’s stowed

in a hat box somewhere
at the bottom of her wardrobe;
or shoved in with dusty pairs
of shoes beneath the bed;
she thought she caught it glinting
from a container in the shed
where the decorations live.

She used to be able access it
any time. Now she needs to forage,
fuddle round, sort through stuff,
move things about
before she can uncover what
she could once easily summon.

‘Believe in yourself,’ they tell her,
‘you’ve got it in spades.’

Occasionally, passing
a mirror, she glimpses
a promise of inner poise,
potential for greatness
she could harness.
But more often than not
it fluctuates, elusive.

It might be inside that old
jewellery casket in the attic,
among her tangled chains
and broken strands of gems
awaiting repair.

She’ll go up now for a rummage.

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