The Layer Underneath

I've been staring at the corner for months.

The wallpaper curling there,

the edge lifting away from the wall

like it's trying to escape.

Today I pulled at it.

The whole section came away in my hand—

a strip of paper,

the pattern (small flowers, repeating)

still visible on the back,

and the wall underneath

is not what I expected.

It's not fresh.

It's not clean.

It's plaster, gray and tired,

with marks where the previous paper

was glued on,

the ghost of another pattern

showing through.

The smell of old adhesive

comes out of the wall.

Dust falls.

I'm looking at the skin of the room,

the thing nobody was meant to see,

and it's disappointing.

It's ordinary.

It's just another layer

of something temporary

that someone thought would hold.

I could pull the rest of it down.

I could strip the whole room bare.

But I don't.

I just stand there,

holding the torn piece,

looking at what was hiding,

which turns out to be

just more hiding,

more layers,

more things waiting

to be taken away.