Porcelain Ice

The mask is made of the thickest ice,

smooth, dependable,

a frozen lake that says

I'm fine. I can hold you. Walk across me.

-

No one sees the cracks that form,

spidering beneath the surface.

They only hear

the steady hush of fallen snow,

not the groan of water pushing upward,

not the fracture lines

threading through my bones.

-

I polish the surface each morning,

my smile glazed like frost.

Inside, the ache pressed against the shell,

a tide demanding collapse.

-

When the mask falls,

it won't slip gently.

It shatters,

porcelain shards wet from the thaw,

ice floes breaking apart.

-

What rushes out

isn't weakness,

but the weight I've carried quietly:

the river of hidden pain,

the chaos of broken thoughts,

and the body's secret ledger,

finally revealed.

-

The world startles at the sound,

but I only feel

a strange relief:

the mask gone,

the water rising,

the truth no longer hidden

beneath the ice.