Porcelain

The cracks were always there.

A silence so fragile it dared you to move wrong,

to speak louder than the walls could bear.

Breath was a gamble,

stillness a shield.

At night, the ceiling seemed lower,

pressed down by weight no one spoke of.

If anything broke,

it wasn’t the house that splintered—

it was you.

Dolls don’t cry.

They sit on shelves,

polished, perfect, waiting.

Even when the fractures deepen,

they hold.