Cracked Skin I Wasn’t Meant to Trace

Fingers hesitate at the doll’s face—

porcelain cold,

smooth and thin.

A crack blooms beneath my touch,

fine fractures spidering outward,

like fragile ice ready to shatter.

The sharp edge presses cool,

a jolt that stops the room,

breaking the quiet with its chill.

Some things hold their wounds in silence,

but I felt the break—

a soft crack beneath my skin

that I wasn’t meant to trace.