The Scratch Above the Sink

No one remembers who wrote this

etched into cracked paint

where peeling skin curls like old paper

and the smell of bleach barely hides

what’s been forgotten.

The words stare back

raw and careless,

a small defiance in the cramped room

that smells of coffee and too many cigarettes.

I lean in close,

hoping for a clue,

a trace of anger or hope,

a name scrawled between the cracks.

But it’s just that line,

a ghost’s signature,

fading slowly

like everything here.