She was never inside what they thought could contain her.
Even her reflections refused obedience...
mirrors cracked in reverence, not rebellion.
She was a horizon refusing to end,
a beginning without origin,
a breath held forever yet never stopping.
They tried to hold her in language,
in outlines, in names.
But her shape was echo, not edge.
She existed in the hush between the canvas,
and what the artist feared to paint.
Not outside by defiance...
but because she belonged to a truth so deep no world had ever carved a space for it.
Even stillness could not catch her...
For she danced too slowly to be seen,
She gazed, slept and wondered too long to be awakened,
She was the part of the dream you wake up missing but cannot remember.
Not unmade. Unframed.
Unwilling to be held by anything less than wonder.