Woman in Chains

I am a whole that was mistaken for a void, a circle called absence, a shape that unsettles those who need edges. They called me a hole, as if emptiness were a flaw, as if fullness had to be sealed. I am made of movement, of liquids that remember the moon, of light that enters, stays, and leaves without asking. I hold without closing, I receive without disappearing, I remain even when nothing stays. What cannot be filled is not lacking. It is alive.