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.