Quiet Cracks We Don’t Talk About ( tw : COCSA ) ( poem )

Lulu touched us
like she was checking for softness—
a slap here, a poke there,
like we were fruit at a market
instead of people who bruise quietly.

Grass tried to shrink away,
folding in on herself
like a flower someone kept petting
long after the petals said “please don’t.”
She wilted right in front of me,
and Lulu didn’t even notice—
or didn’t care to.

And then me—
another tap on already fragile ceramic,
another fracture spiderwebbing out
from places I stopped looking at years ago.
It’s strange how old hurt
can wake up so fast,
stretch its limbs,
and sit right back in your chest
like it never left.

We were both handled
like objects on a shelf,
picked up, pressed, poked—
as if our “no”
was just background noise,
as if we weren’t allowed
to keep our own skin to ourselves.

And now Grass avoids the rooms she used to love,
and I avoid shadows shaped like her.
We don’t talk about it,
but the silence between us
feels like matching bruises—
soft, sore,
still healing,
still here.

I wish people knew
that even gentle-looking hands
can leave echoes.
And those echoes linger,
louder than any slap,
louder than any joke.

We aren’t unbreakable.
We’re just trying to stay upright
despite the cracks
no one else seems to see.