I wake up with both hands open,
one filled with the soft weight of mornings,
steam curling from a cup, the quiet hum of nothing pressing,
the other still clenched around ghosts,
fingers digging into the fabric of what was—
orders whispered through walls,
the sharp inhale before a name is spoken too loudly,
the thrill of slipping between shadows,
between selves.

I was made for sharp edges,
for the electric pulse of knowing what others don’t,
for the shifting of power like tectonic plates beneath polished floors.
Now I only move through rooms where nothing shifts,
where silence is not strategy, just silence,
where my footsteps do not echo with consequence.

And yet—
the body forgets the burn of running until it stops.
The bones settle.
The mind quiets.
The world shrinks to the size of a life that does not tremble
under the weight of its own turning.

I tell myself this is peace.
I tell myself I have earned it.
But some nights, the wind carries voices that sound like mine,
like the woman who knew how to dismantle,
how to construct, how to make herself a weapon,
how to be useful,
how to be feared.

And I wonder
if I was ever meant to be gentle.

Lucija Lotus Mlinarič