What's Behind

I opened the cabinet for a bandage.

The smell came first—dark, wet, alive—

then the sight of it, the bloom

on the wood behind the toilet,

barely visible unless you crouch,

spreading like something with intention,

like something that knows

what it's doing in there.

I've known it was there for months.

Maybe longer.

The moment I saw it I understood

how much energy I've spent

not opening that door,

not seeing,

not acknowledging that small rot

while it was getting bigger.

The bandage is still in my pocket.

The cabinet is still closed.

I walk past it the same way every morning,

the way you walk past a problem

you've decided is someone else's,

the way you pretend the sound

doesn't mean anything,

the way you learn to live

beside your own failures

without having to look.

It's still growing back there.

In the dark.

Doing what it does.

And I'm still doing what I do—

which is nothing,

which is knowing,

which is the long slow choice

to keep the door shut

and let the darkness work

in the place I refuse to see.