There lies a porcelain saucer right in my diaphragm,

Cupping the pain,

Holding power.

A balance act,

Sometimes the liquid tips a bit to the left,


Droplets of suffering,

On to the table.

They turns into little marbles,

you know?


Rolling down the dinner table,

Free falling onto the floor.

In those moments, I hold very still

Barely breathing,

Not willing to let the saucer topple.

Each time a new crack appears,


Internal golden repair.

If you listen to my voice,


you can hear it.

The soft echo of someone holding on.

Just like you.

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