Stopped pretending this morning

Stopped pretending this morning.

The brown had spread past the corner,

past where I could still claim

it's just water, it's nothing,

it's a stain that time will handle.

The edges are soft. Still wet.

Something's breathing up there

in the space between floors,

and it's breathing down

into my ceiling.

I've been staring at it for weeks

trying to watch it shrink,

trying to reverse the clock,

but the stain just grows.

It spreads. It blooms.

It's shaped like something with lungs.

The landlord will have to come.

The landlord will have to see.

I'll have to tell him the truth—

Yes, it's bad. Yes, it's worse.

Yes, I knew all along.

And then the pretending stops.

And then the ignoring stops.

And then I have to let the damage

be what it is:

the color of surrender,

the shape of what I've been running from.