Poetry

U ogledalu ne stoji žena. Stoji legenda. Lilith ne ona iz tuđih priča, već ona koja je preživela sopstvene. Nežna u svetlosti, nepokorna u srži, bez mraka koji su joj pripisali i bez kajanja koje nikad nije nosila. Njene oči ne traže izvinjenje jer znaju istinu: sloboda nije greh, samo pretnja onima koji se plaše da dišu punim plućima. Njene ruke ne mole za dodir jer su naučile da je samo dodir istine dovoljan da svet promeni oblik. Lilith je stvorena od trenutaka koje niko nije uspeo da slomi, od odlazaka koji nisu bili bekstvo nego povratak sebi, od tišina koje nisu bile prazne nego pune onoga što drugi nisu smeli da izgovore. Kada diše, zvezde se približavaju da čuju ritam žene koja se usudila da postoji bez dopuštenja. Kada ćuti, tama se povlači ne zato što je se boji, već zato što zna da u njenoj tišini živi revolucija. U meni je živi mit, ali ne mit o kazni već mit o povratku: onaj koji uči da najdublja svetlost uvek nastaje iz najdublje usamljenosti. Svaki njegov dah podseća me ko sam bila pre nego što su me imenovali, pre nego što su odlučili šta smem da budem, pre nego što sam pristala da nosim teret tuđih strahova. Lilith u meni zna: sloboda je prva istina. Tišina je drugi dom. A srce…najstariji oltar na kome se žrtvuje sve što nismo, da bi moglo da se rodi ono što jesamo. ...

To nije bila želja. Bila je gravitacija. Ne ona koja spaja, nego ona koja proverava koliko daleko nešto može da se približi pre nego što se raspadne. Između njih je postojalo ono tiho znanje koje ne traži dodir da bi bilo stvarno. Kao kad dve zvezde uđu u istu putanju i već tada znaju da sudar nije kraj, nego pravilo. Privlačili su se ne zato što su se dopunjavali, nego zato što su prepoznavali pukotine na istim mestima. On je u njoj video mir koji nije mogao da izdrži. Ona je u njemu videla haos koji je razumeo previše dobro. I to je bio problem. Jer ono što se razume bez objašnjenja često ne ume da se zadrži bez uništenja. Njihova blizina nije tražila budućnost. Tražila je intenzitet. A intenzitet ne ostavlja prostor da se živi posle. Svaki njihov trenutak bio je previše jasan, previše tačan, kao da istina nema nameru da se zadrži duže nego što je potrebno da zaboli. Nisu se razišli. Samo su prestali da prkose onome što su znali od početka. Da privlačnost ne znači sudbinu. Da prepoznavanje ne garantuje ostanak. Postoje sile koje se pojave samo da bi dokazale koliko nešto može da bude stvarno a da ipak ne opstane. I upravo zato ostanu zauvek urezane. Ne kao ljubav. Ne kao gubitak. Nego kao dokaz da je između njih postojalo nešto što nije imalo pravo da traje ali je imalo moć da zauvek promeni način na koji se stoji u sopstvenoj tišini…. ...

Nije to bila ljubav. Ljubav ima obrise, ima nade, ima mogućnost da se objasni. Ovo je bilo nešto drugo… Kao da se u tebi otvori mesto za koje nisi znala da postoji dok ga neko ne dotakne tačno tamo gde ne sme. Između njih nije bilo obećanja. Samo preciznost. Previše jasna da bi bila slučajna, previše bolna da bi trajala. On je video sve što je ona pokušavala da drži pod kontrolom. Ne zato što je gledao dublje, nego zato što je stajao na istoj ivici. Ona je u njemu prepoznala onu vrstu tame koja ne traži spasenje, nego svedoka. I tu se desilo najgore: bili su dovoljno blizu da se razumeju i dovoljno svesni da znaju da ne mogu ostati. Njihova blizina nije donosila toplinu. Donosila je istinu. A istina, kada se pojavi prerano, ne leči — ona razara strukture koje su nas držale živima. Svaki njihov trenutak bio je kao rez koji ne krvari odmah, ali se nikada ne zatvori. Nisu se povredili. Samo su prestali da se štede. I to je bilo nepodnošljivo. Jer postoji bol koji ne dolazi iz gubitka, nego iz saznanja da si pronašla nešto stvarno u prostoru u kojem stvarno ne može da opstane. Posle toga više ne tražiš isto. Ne pristaješ na manje, ali ni ne veruješ u više. Ostaneš negde između — sa sećanjem koje ne možeš da nazoveš greškom jer je bilo suviše tačno, i ne možeš da ga nazoveš sudbinom jer te je ostavilo bez budućnosti. I to je ono što boli najduže: ne što se završilo, nego što se nikada nije moglo drugačije završiti. Čak ni za onih deset narednih…. ...

Kao alhemičar, mešao je boje po mom telu, ne četkicom, već prstima što znaju šapat etra. Svaka linija svetlosni pečat, svaki dodir kod što otključava dušu. Na koži mi ostavljao zlatne spirale, kao da je znao gde počinjem, a gde se završavam u beskonačnosti između daha i zvezde. Rekao je: „Ti nisi telo, ti si hram tajni." U zenitu tišine, gde svet nestaje, pretvarao me u platno noći i svetlosti, alhemijom svetlucavih pigmenata spajao mi prošlost sa mogućim. Nisam ga gledala očima, već unutrašnjim ogledalom svetlosti, gde je boja postajala molitva, a senka most ka drugoj dimenziji. Gubila sam oblik da bih postala istina. U njegovim rukama — svetlosni kod, u mom dahu — večnost zapisana bojom koju ni vreme ne može da izbriše.

I create from silence, fracture, and light. Not to decorate the world, but to understand it. My work grows where contrast lives — between shadow and clarity, restraint and intensity, collapse and becoming. What you will find here is not a single form, but a trace of transformation: images, words, and inner landscapes shaped by experience rather than expectation. This space is an invitation — to slow down, to look closer, and to enter what comes next.

I. SANITY (the reflection — the mask before fracture) They laughed at the world, and the world called them insane. But they knew — insanity was just clarity without permission. He built reason like theatre, every silence an act, every smile a weapon. She learned to applaud his precision — the way he made control look holy. He carried the noise, she carried the silence. Together, they formed balance — the kind that trembles when you listen too closely. He was the quiet chaos that made sense only to her. The anomaly that logic refused to solve, a paradox wearing a grin, a storm rehearsed to perfection. He laughed like someone who'd already heard the punchline of the universe. And she believed him. The world called it madness; she called it proof. They didn't love. They perfected distance. He buried his heart under logic. She buried hers under ritual. They shared the same incision, just different scars. They mastered the art of composure — how to bleed without stain, how to speak without emotion, how to smile until the smile became a mirror. He spoke in silence. She smiled in ruin. Together, they looked sane enough to fool the world. But sanity, when forced to behave, starts to sound like performance. There was something theatrical in his calm; a kind of laughter the mind invents when truth becomes unbearable. He didn't need a stage — the world was already watching. It wasn't peace. It was precision in disguise. They both knew the trick: keep the mask smiling long enough, and no one sees the fracture underneath. For a moment, the chaos obeyed. And that was enough to call it balance. They weren't saving each other — they were worshiping the illusion. Two mirrors, both flawless, already breaking. II. COLLAPSE (the masked pulse — theatre of symmetry) He laughed to hide it. She smiled like a secret contract. Both fluent in masks. Both fluent in mirrors. He carried irony like gospel. She carried silence like a stage light. Every gesture rehearsed, every truth rewritten for applause. They buried emotion early — classified it as a flaw, studied it, dissected it, and erased the pulse like an equation that didn't balance. No mourning. No guilt. Just execution. Just order. Different graves, same funeral. He performed control. She choreographed chaos. Madness was the script. Clarity the joke told too well. He spoke in riddles. She answered in smirks. Not a sickness, a craft. Precision painted as disorder. The audience never noticed the symmetry. He didn't just know the trick… he was the trick. The grin behind the curtain, the pause before the punchline, the whisper that rewrote the script while smiling at the crowd. Static hummed. Spotlights blinked. Paint cracked. And beneath the performance — something brilliant kept breaking. They didn't love. They didn't hate. They reflected. They improvised. They understood the comedy of survival. Not lovers. Not strangers. Just two architects of the same collapse. Different graves. Same funeral.

The Mirror and the Legend (from the cycle "Mirrors of the Dark") I looked into the mirror and met my own legend. Between mirrors and monsters I found myself. Sometimes the reflection isn't just what I see, but what I remember in silence. Because even in darkness, there's a story that still breathes — and I am the one who writes it. I never liked mirrors. They are too honest. You don't see your face in them — you see the silence that shaped it. That night, I wasn't searching for myself. I was simply standing before a reflection that breathed differently than I did. As if someone inside me was awake while I was still asleep. The glass trembled under the light. In its depth there was no face — only a shadow that knew me better than I knew myself. Something beneath the surface was pulsing, like a heart left behind. "I am not a myth," the shadow whispered. "I am your first truth." Then I recognized her… Lilith. Not the demon they spoke of, but the voice that had been silenced for too long. Her eyes did not ask for forgiveness — they demanded truth. "You said yes when you should have said no," she said. "Now write, until you find your voice." Words began to burn inside me. At the bottom of the mirror, Persephone appeared — barefoot, her hands full of soil and red seeds. Light mingled with ashes on her palms. "You've died more times than you know," she said softly. "But every death is just the way a soul remembers its shape." Then I understood — the mirror was never an object. It was a threshold, a border between who I am and what I had forgotten to be. Every crack was a sentence, every reflection another self waiting to be released. Lilith raised her gaze and Persephone smiled. In their presence there was no God, no Devil — only a woman who had finally stopped running from her own darkness. And I realized — I am not the shadow of my wounds, but the one who illuminates them from within. Darkness never meant to destroy me — it only wanted to teach me how to speak its language. I stood before the mirror for a long time, while the light slowly withdrew from the room. I breathed with the reflection, and it breathed with me. The story was breathing. And I was breathing with it. Because I was no longer the observer — I was the author of what had created me. — The Skin Remembers (from the cycle "Mirrors of the Dark") The night pressed itself against my skin like memory — not gentle, but familiar. It did not touch me — it recognized me. And in that recognition I realized that the body remembers everything the mind has tried to forget. Each pore breathed a confession. Each scar whispered a fragment of truth. Light was no longer light — it was a witness, tracing the map of places where I had once silenced myself. The bones beneath the surface trembled. The collarbone — that thin border between the soul and the world — shone like a wound that had finally learned to breathe. This, I thought, is the line between what I admit and what I bury. The body is an oracle. It speaks only to those who dare to listen. And when I close my eyes, I hear my pulse — not as rhythm, but as a question: "To whom do I still belong?" Lilith is silent within that question. Not as myth, but as energy. She is the part of me that never bowed — the one who knows that vulnerability is not weakness, but the purest form of truth. Her presence needs no words. She breathes through the skin, through the spaces where light turns into pain. And in her breath I understand — the body is not a prison. It is an archive. Every silence, every forgotten moment, every memory I tried to dissolve — they all live here, beneath the skin. When I touch my neck, I feel the traces of all my former selves. None of them are gone. They return when the night becomes quiet enough to remember. The skin keeps what the mind suppresses. It remembers what we were never brave enough to feel. And when it hurts, it is not punishment — it is remembrance of what was once alive. So when the darkness comes and the shadows begin to move through me again, I no longer run. I breathe. Because I now know — what hurts is only the heart trying to remember its shape.

She doesn't arrive quietly. She parts the night like a dress. Stands barefoot on your threshold, not asking to be let in — but for you to kneel. Her teeth are filled with stars, her skin smells of sin and something sacred you've yet to name. She wasn't made to love, but when she does — you burn. And what's left of you still shines. Her touch is not a touch. It's a code. When she brushes against you, your entire system trembles as if you've swallowed the sky. She doesn't lie beside you — she takes you, her gaze fixed on your shadow as if to ask: "Do you know who you are when you're stripped bare?" And when she breaks, she doesn't scream — she radiates. From her bones erupt luminous signs, wet with fire not born of this earth. She promised you nothing. But still, you fell. Because you touched something no one ever conquers — but that reveals itself only once. You awakened the beast, but you saw the goddess.

Under the moon, his eyes held a stillness born from surviving too many storms and learning to freeze before breaking. He wasn't danger — only a blade-shaped presence cutting through the static in my mind and exposing thoughts I bury when the sun is up. Then it happened — that thin, electric snap when sanity stretches past its limit and truth starts speaking in a voice you can't shut down. Moonlight fractured across his face, turning every line into a shadow I recognized instantly — not emotion, but the precision of something that doesn't tremble when the world splits. So there, in the space between silence and collapse, I met the version of myself that rises only in darkness — unmasked, exact, and colder than the moon above.

Znam ko si. Osećam te. Zavukla si se u mene bez poziva, šapatom, obećanjima, pogledima koji su delovali toplo. Zvala si se ljubav, nežnost, sudbina. A bila si tuga. Hladnoća. Pustoš. Otrovan dah iluzije. Vukla si me danima, noćima, snovima. Tvoje reči su bile kao pesma, a bile su otrov. Učila si me da ćutim, da se prilagođavam, da praštam ono što se ne prašta. Da volim ono što me ubija. Da sumnjam u ono što jesam. Ali danas — ne više. Danas gledam taj rub na kome stojim i shvatam — Nisi ti kraj. Ti si moje dno. A ja od dna ne bežim. Ja od njega skačem uvis. Vraćam sebi glas. Vraćam sebi dostojanstvo. Vraćam sebi svetlo koje si gasila. Neću da te zaboravim — ali neću više ni da te hranim. Bićeš moja senka, ne moj gospodar.

Ovde ide tekst pesme... red po red ovako.

Ovde ide tekst pesme... red po red ovako.

Ovde ide tekst pesme... red po red ovako.