Folded Accusation

A folded note slipped under my door,

pressed between junk and thin flyers—

letters shaking like the hands that wrote them,

words cramped into stiff lines.

Last night’s laughter fell too hard,

walls thinner than my patience,

fists knocking when the music spilled,

neighbors wanting the quiet I never kept.

The letter’s edges cut sharper

than the night’s broken rhythm,

accusing silence that won’t rest,

a folded paper biting at my skin.

Noise is a wound

that doesn’t show,

but still, it bleeds.