What Spreads in the Dark

I didn't notice when it started.

Just a shadow near the outlet,

the kind of mark you see and move past,

nothing to worry about.

Then it doubled. Then it crept

toward the window frame,

gray-black fingers spreading,

feathered edges like something was growing,

something that wanted more wall,

wanted more air,

wanted in.

I touched it this morning.

The paint gave way under my fingernail.

Soft. Damp underneath.

Like the wall is rotting from inside out,

like something has been eating

at the plaster while I slept.

I haven't called anyone.

I just stand there some mornings

watching it inch closer to the glass,

waiting to see how far

it will go before I have to do something,

before it becomes a problem I can't ignore,

before the landlord has to know.

It's almost beautiful, the way it spreads.

Purposeful.

Patient.

Like it knows I'm not going to stop it.