Vacillating

I say yes

with one hand

and build an exit

with the other.

I step forward

and leave a footprint

pointing back.

The body knows

before the mouth does—

a tightening,

a soft recoil,

a pendulum inside the ribs

swinging

between devotion

and disappearance.

It is not indecision.

It is weather.

The sky can hold thunder

and still hesitate.

I am learning

how to stand

inside the sway—

not correcting it,

not condemning it.

Some days I lean toward love

so hard

my shadow falls behind me.

Some days I lean toward safety

and call it wisdom.

There is a thin seam

between instinct

and fear.

I press my ear to it

like a door

that won’t quite open.

Vacillating is not weakness.

It is the nervous system

asking for proof.

It is the lioness

measuring the wind.

It is the gardener

hovering over a seed

wondering

if the frost has truly passed.

I have mistaken oscillation

for failure.

But even the tide

returns

without apology.

Even breath

cannot choose

only inhale.

So I stand here—

mid-sway,

mid-thought,

mid-becoming—

and refuse

to rush the rhythm

into certainty.

Let the pendulum move.

I am still

the clock.

Vacillation Is Not Weakness

They call it wavering

because they fear

what cannot be cornered.

I call it calibration.

I lean forward

until the air shifts.

I lean back

until the ground answers.

That is not doubt.

That is measurement.

The untrained eye

mistakes the pendulum

for instability.

But what they do not see

is the fulcrum.

I do not swing

because I am lost.

I swing

because I am assessing.

Because power

does not rush.

Because predators

do not pounce

until the wind

confesses its direction.

Yes.

No.

Wait.

Each one

is a sovereign word.

Vacillation is the moment

before the blade chooses

where to fall.

It is the pause

that terrifies the impatient.

It is breath held

long enough

to feel the architecture

of the room.

I have been told

to be decisive

as if speed

were proof of strength.

But speed

is often panic

wearing confidence.

I move

when the center locks.

I speak

when the ground

agrees beneath my feet.

Oscillation

is not collapse.

It is power

circling its own perimeter

refusing to leak.

You see indecision.

I see containment.

You see hesitation.

I see discipline.

You see a woman wavering.

I see a woman

with a blade

still sheathed

by choice.