Glass Memory

You don’t notice

how fragile a glass is

until it bleeds you —

quietly.

No crash.

No gasp.

Just your lip

leaking a truth

you didn’t know you still carried.

Some cracks

don’t split.

They sleep.

Until water finds them

and memory drinks you

from the inside out.

That’s what forgetting is —

not absence,

but rehearsal.

It waits

in the stillness of a room,

in the echo of a voice

that doesn’t belong

but fits too well.

You say you’re healing —

but you carry your calm

like a vase with a hidden fracture.

One move too sudden,

and the whole thing

becomes confession.

You smile like survival

was a job interview

you didn’t prepare for,

and they hired you

out of pity.

You hold your grief

like a borrowed cup —

careful not to spill

in case someone notices

how long it’s been empty.

There is no nobility in holding on.

Only choreography.

A dance to keep the pain elegant

and the silence dressed.

And hope —

hope is just

the softest synonym

for denial.

Let me shatter

without ceremony.

Not every fracture

needs to be named.

Not every silence

wants to be saved.

I am not your metaphor.

I am the crack

that learned how to hold

without healing.

And if that makes you uncomfortable —

good.

It means you’re still soft enough

to break.