Ceiling Continent

It started small,

a faint, tea-colored bloom

after that week of rain.

Now, above my bed,

it’s a whole new landmass.

Antarctica, maybe,

or some lost continent

from a map I never saw.

The edges are soft,

smudged like a thumbprint

on damp paper,

but it keeps growing.

A slow, quiet claim

on the plaster.

It holds old weather,

the weight of every storm,

every leaky worry

I tried to ignore.

A dark geography

of what seeps through.

It’s a bruise

the house can’t hide.