I never needed force to move worlds.
My power did not scream, it sighed, softly,
like silk across an open palm, like moonlight caught in lace,
trembling but never breaking.
I felt it first as warmth, a ripple beneath my ribs, growing quietly,
secretly,
until my body hummed like an ocean remembering its tides.
I did not discover my power, it discovered me.
In the hush between heartbeats, in the breath held too long,
it whispered:
I am here, inside you, the ache that will never abandon itself.
I learned not to fear the way it overflowed,
how it spilled gently,
invisibly through my fingertips,
into the unseen spaces of every room I entered.
I am not powerful because I can conquer, but because I can soften.
Because my heart can weep for worlds that forgot how to dream.
Because I can love without ever needing permission to love myself first.
My heart never hardened, it became silk-lined armor,
strong enough to hold every ache, every secret longing,
every fragile truth that the world was too sharp to cradle.
My power does not belong to this world.
It belongs to the quiet spaces,
the forgotten petals pressed between pages,
the gentle hum of wind that kisses the silence into waking.
I am not here to convince, only to remind.
Remind the hardened ones, the ones who forgot their softness,
that true power never asks to be seen, only felt.
And so I live, heartbeat by heartbeat, in this infinite softness,
holding worlds together with the quiet force of feeling everything.