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Under Porcelain
She smiled,
The kind that fits
Like fine porcelain
On polished shelves.
She added the sugar,
Asked about the day,
But folded her voice
Into careful pleats.
No one noticed,
The twitch in her hand,
How the tea danced
Before the quick sips.
She laughed,
But her breath shook,
Like windows trembling
Before the wind.
Even the mirror,
Cracked behind her veil
Dared not speak
Of the quiver it caught.
She kept it hidden,
Polished with grace,
While deep beneath
The cracks grew teeth.
For grace, they say,
Is to endure unshaken.
But no one warned
How silence splinters.
How can a porcelain
Bear the aches?
Until the fine cracks
Become the shape?
Copyright ©
Salma Malik
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