Mercedes Dawson’s Poem on the realisation that she can step into herself and that she can be a place of strength
Art by Mercedes Dawson
I no longer feel the weight of tiredness, triedness,
fasten down my bones to the position of sitting,
or hold me still, sedentary.
Somewhere between all the ways
in which the years have taken from me
love, laughter, the stable arms of my mother
the breasts that gave me danger
a textured sigh slowly unfurled from my lips
and took the last fuck left to give with it.
I feel muscle in jaw clench,
eyes darken to toss out the blue
and sight fix on the image in the mirror
that I am learning more about each day.
There is no smallness in my stature anymore,
my shoulders are squared, braced, ready,
head lifted to dead-on stare down
the submissive self back into its corner.
The dust is settling on this new stance,
in ways that twist in my gut to push me forward
to step over, endirtied shoe, the times when I would shy away.
No longer the discord of my own bearing
to kneel at the feet of the not good enough
I once shined the shoes of
and lay down to be walked over for.
Is it wrong to finally middle finger the world?
Is it wrong to have you circle around me for once?
Is it wrong to put you firmly in your place?
Watch me as I stand.