Seeping

The ceiling is crying water.

I heard it first—a small sound,

then watched the amber slaughter

of plaster spread around.

I could call today.

Could tell the landlord there's a stain.

But instead I'll stay

and watch it grow. Again, again.

There's a particular shame

in knowing something's breaking

and deciding to maintain

the silence. To keep faking.

The stain gets darker every night.

Like old tea. Like rust.

Like something that has the right

to fall apart. I must

just lie here and let it.

Must watch the water find

new paths. Must regret it

later. For now, I'm resigned.

By next week it might be worse.

By then I'll owe more money.

But I'm stuck in this curse

of doing nothing. Of staying.