"Porcelain"

he wasn’t fragile, not in the way people think.

She didn’t break with noise.

No—she cracked like porcelain,

in silence,

in stillness.

Hairline fractures no one noticed until the whole thing no longer held water.

I watched her hold everyone’s grief

like she was built to carry it.

They called her strong.

Resilient.

Admired the way she kept her smile pressed like linen,

never noticing how much she bled inside it.

At thirteen, I tried to fix her with words,

left notes in her coat pockets—

“Breathe today.”

“You are here.”

But even paper wilts when it’s soaked too long.

She never screamed.

Never asked for help.

She just slowly… disappeared into her own reflection,

fading behind the polished image everyone wanted her to be.

Now I find myself mimicking her grace,

stitching my seams tight enough to pass for whole.

People compliment the surface,

never suspecting the ruin underneath.

And I wonder,

how many of us are just mosaics pretending to be mirrors—

glued together by expectations,

aching for someone

to notice the art

in our damage.