Mold In The Walls
Paint curls off the ceiling like old scabs giving up the fight
walls sweat in the summertime and freeze strange patterns at night
There is a smell of something rotten baked into the floor and vents
like the building’s breathing filth through every crack and dent
I take pictures on my phone of the mushrooms near the baseboard seam
send them to the landlord’s number that might as well be a dream
He answers once in three weeks with a dry “we’ll get to that
” then raises rent five dollars while the ceiling stains spread fat.
Bathroom fan just rattles, never pulls the steam or air
mirror fogs with more than water when I see myself standing there
Chest tight every morning
lungs whistle like a broken flute
I spit up gray dust and soot
Doctor circles “possible exposure
” says “you shouldn’t stay there” like I had another route
I nod and tuck the paper in a drawer that smells like damp
share this room with mold and worry like bunkmates at some cursed camp.
I’m a tenant sinking slow in mold and rot and cheap white lies
Every cough another letter that this place will not revise
I keep begging for repair while my breath shrinks thin and rough
Landlord pockets all my wages and pretends this ruin’s enough.
Neighbor on the second floor tapes plastic to her window frame
says the spores creep in at night and her kids cough all the same
She leaves voicemails full of wheezing on that office line downtown
nobody calls her back till the next month’s rent comes round
Maintenance guy shrugs politely
says “we can paint it over quick
” brushes bright new poison on top of whatever makes us sick
He signs his initials on a work sheet and disappears into the hall
leaving fresh wet gloss on a still infected wall.
Humid summer thunder makes the stairwell smell like graves
wet carpet never fully dries, just wrinkles up in waves
I open up the windows but the frames are warped and bent
outside air brings traffic fumes that fight the stench from the vent
Someone from the city came once
clipboard and a narrowed eye
landlord walked behind him talking sweet and sprucing up the lie
By the time they reached my doorway the worst corners had been blocked
boxes stacked up in the edges where the plaster cracked and wept.
I’m a tenant sinking slow in mold and rot and cheap white lies
Every breath another gamble that my own house won’t realize
I keep dialing dead numbers while my lungs learn how to wheeze
He just raises up the leases and ignores our ragged pleas.
I lie awake some nights and listen to the drip behind the tile
counting seconds in the darkness, measuring each mile
Think about sleeping in my car
think about friends with couches thin
think about walking out at midnight and never coming back in
Then the rain hits a little harder and the world feels just as cold
the least broken thing I own is this decaying rented hold
So I stay another season with a towel under the door
waiting for a zoning check that has never found this floor.
Kids in the courtyard wheeze and laugh
chase each other through the heat
their inhalers flash like lighters in their tiny dusty street
Their mothers swap the stories of rashes, nosebleeds
fear
each one has a number for a lawyer they cannot afford this year
We talk about a union, about withholding what we owe
but half of us are one paycheck from the sidewalk down below
Landlord sends a letter warning “late fees will apply
” no mention of the spores that bloom each time the showers cry.
One morning I see a sign on the old brick across the way
luxury lofts “coming soon, ” selling a sterile lie
I know one day they’ll gut this block
bleach the bones and dress the shell
call it urban living while they scrub away the smell
Till then we cough in chorus
whole building like a rusted lung
paying for the privilege of being slowly undone
I tape another trash bag over the corner where it spreads
whisper “I’m still here” to the darkness crawling inches from my bed.
I’m a tenant sinking slow in mold and rot and quiet harm
Paying monthly for the poison that is seeping through my arm
I keep pleading for a fix with every rattled
burning breath
He keeps cashing all our checks and letting mildew write our death. One day I’ll leave this peeling box with what is left of my chest
Find four clean walls and a ceiling that doesn’t put me to the test
Till then I’m breathing shallow in a home that feels like proof That some people own the ground and some just pay to lose their roof.