Scratched Into the Black

The stall door is a map of small despairs,

layered in Sharpie and half-hearted grease.

But near the hinge, where the metal wears,

someone carved a plea for a long-lost peace.

A name. A number. Seven digits deep,

gouged with a house key or a serrated blade.

The silver underneath is a jagged leap

out of the black paint the landlord laid.

I wonder if they’re waiting for the ring,

or if the wall is the only place it stays.

It’s a violent, permanent, quiet thing,

hanging in the bathroom for the rest of our days.