The broom did not change. Only the imagination of the hand that held it when you were given sky but learned cold floor

Because you learned that power that doesn’t repair feels obscene. So you bent it downward. Into labor, discipline, the humiliation of seeing the mess and becoming responsible for it

Blood needs no name. Yours, theirs, ours. Overflow from everyone who mistook your strength for a place to pile their pain. And because you’ve always believed what is in your hand is in your power, you answer it. With repetition, the elegance of someone wearing themselves down rather than kneel

Strength is condemned to maintenance. Who knows how to work the broom is left working it, long after others drift into alibis: fate, illness, God, childhood, bad luck, “that’s just how I am.” You refused that language. Not “I can’t, I am made this way” - but learn, grow, become. That reckless creed carried you through your own mind, though not far enough to enchant others with that spell

Capability frees, but abolishes escape. Strips carelessness, the luxury of collapse. You become the one who remains and answers

A witch who can fly, yet practiced usefulness until she mistrusts the veil. Made to trespass naked through moonlit skies, reduced to tidying consequence. Still something remains. A suspicion that if one keeps faith with motion long enough, it may loosen; that rest, pleasure, love are not dead - only shy - and magic still exists

Perhaps one night the floor falls quiet and you remember a sensation - what it was to let go.

The raw pull of lift. A sudden drop that steals breath and thought alike. Not correcting, not controlled but carried. Held between fear and exhilaration, the rough texture of wood driven hard into the seam between your thighs as you rise.

Perhaps you look up from ancient curiosity and feel with almost unbearable tenderness, that you did not always carry the broom.

Once it took you careless and black-winged beneath the stars and scarlet crescents, past roofs and trees and every small voice that mistook fear for truth.

And perhaps it will again. Not because the broom has changed - but because your hand still might.

Selbstwirksamkeit