It started with whispers
when I couldn’t sleep,
confessing to plaster
things too heavy to keep.
The ceiling heard everything–
every ugly admission,
every fear I dressed up
as a casual decision.
I told the walls about her,
about the night I didn’t stop it,
about the pills I counted
and the drawer I almost popped it.
I told them everything
because the walls don’t talk back,
don’t judge, don’t flinch,
don’t tighten or crack.
But now the walls know too much.
Now they breathe
with the weight of what I gave them,
and the air feels thick with grief.
I can hear the paint remembering
when the lights go out at ten,
and I swear the corners lean in
like they want to hear again.
I told the walls too much
and now I can’t move rooms.
Every inch of plaster
holds my personal tombs.
The landlord paints over,
but the words bleed through.
I told the walls too much,
and the walls
told them to you.