You ever notice,

how it only takes one thing

to make the mask slip?

One glance that lingers

half a second too long,

one word that lands with the wrong weight

and suddenly the whole performance

we call being human

starts to glitch.

We’re all porcelain dolls, baby,

shined up for display.

Smiles glazed on.

Polite laughter fired at high heat.

But underneath:

underneath is clay.

Soft.

Damp.

Breathing.

Waiting for the first crack

to remember what it feels like

to be touched.

You know what I’m talking about.

That twitch behind your grin.

That molten, animal thing

pressing its face

right up against the glass of your

composure.

When someone says your name

and it hits you just right.

When you want to scream

or kiss

or run

or confess

everything.

But instead you sip your drink,

smile,

say, “I’m fine.”

That’s the veneer.

That whisper-thin membrane

between ache and act,

between I won’t

and I will.

And it’s all that keeps this world intact.

All that keeps us from collapsing

into what we really are:

raw nerve,

salt and trembling,

pulse before

thought.

But

God,

how beautiful the breaking.

When the mask shatters,

and the glaze runs,

and for one perfect, ruinous moment

we stop pretending.

And remember.

We were never porcelain.

We were always fire.