Bruised Walls

Beneath the mirror’s edge,

a dark patch blooms,

a mottled bruise on peeling paint.

Drip, drip,

a rhythm slow and deliberate

as the faucet’s leak grows louder

in the quiet bathroom air.

Edges curl like old skin,

walls sweat in tired waves.

I watch the stain creep,

a slow invasion,

taking more than just space—

a trace left in the damp.