She loved porcelain of hundreds of years,
vases she treated like daughters—kept photos
of the ones she sold when necessity chose,
as if to hold what she'd released to tears.
You grew from war to gold, from lack to king,
women circling you like butterflies.
You learned to love the circle, how it ties
beginning back to end, completing things.
Mirrors on ceilings. Glass fins catching light.
You hang reflection where I'd hang possibility.
But completeness is a fiction we recite—
perfection begs to break its own fragility.
Dynasties pass. Power repeats its pain.
I name the curse and reject its chain.