by Sigrid E. Mortensen
© 2023
I am not a victim
Of childhoods past
Of insults hurled in my direction
Or thorns of criticism
Lodged deep beneath my skin.
I am not a victim
Of a body I don’t understand
Whose care manual seems to have been
Lost
In the post
Whose needs are expressed
In only the vaguest terms
That compete
And conflict
And vie for attention.
I am not a victim
Of the wiring of my brain
Whose focus seems arbitrary
Whimsical
Capricious
And then locks with fierce determination
On the pettiest of things.
I am not a victim because
I own my past
My body
My brain.
I marvel at what they have taught me.
I swim in the pleasures they bring:
Sweet memories of fun
And laughter
And silly games;
Indulgent surrender to tastes
And scents
And touch;
Intricate connections
Of ideas
And knowledge
And inspirations.
Sometimes I feel tossed in waves
Tumbled head over heel
Disoriented
Drinking salt water
Wondering up from down until
Scraped by sandy sea floor.
But those crests are there for me to ride.
They pick me up
Take me with them in full
Participation
To feel that icy wind peeling past wet skin and
Tangling in wet hair in
Joyous
Abandon
To feel the rumble of power underfoot
To breathe deeply ocean air
To inhale the view of beach and tide
From oh, such lofty height.
So, I shall lay aside my belief
In victimhood
Set it on my bedside table
Near enough that I can pick it up
Whenever I see fit
And for now
I will sally forth without its noose around my neck
Free in my new
Acknowledgment
Of my own
Vast
Power.