Dusty Glass Doll

 There was a doll made of glass.

She was not placed in the center of the room, but in the corner, where the light brushed past her without stopping.

When others broke, hands rushed in- taping, mending, carrying with care.

When she trembled, they turned away, as if fragility was her only language, as if her breaking was expected and therefore unworthy of alarm.

Success bloomed around her like wildflowers- applause for the smallest blossoms, cheers for the simplest turns of the wind.

But when she bloomed, the garden went silent, eyes narrowing, waiting for her to bloom again, larger, brighter, without rest.

The world gave her burdens not because she was strong, but because she was invisible enough to carry them unseen.

She bent, always bent, arms full of what others refused, and they mistook her balance for ease.

They pitied her labor, grateful she bore it, never grateful to her.

The glass doll was told perfection did not exist.

Yet still they polished her, held her up against impossible light, and measured the streaks that appeared. Every flaw was magnified. Every silence around her was filled with expectation.

And still, she endured. Not with cracks— but with hollows.

Her hollows filled with memory, with echoes of all the help she was never given, with the weight of every unseen task.

Years later, those who once ignored her would pass her in forgotten corners, catch the faint shimmer, and wonder;

Was she fragile, or was she vast? Was she a doll, or a vessel? Did she hold nothing, or did she hold everything?

They would never answer.

They would only remember the feeling of her presence; how the room had seemed heavier wherever she stood. Covered in dust.