Laughter Through the Wall

Crack above the switch vibrates—

laughter jagged and brittle,

something sharp breaking

in the next room’s darkness.

It doesn’t soften,

doesn’t ask for kindness,

just raw edges scraping wood and plaster,

a dry cough hiding what’s underneath.

I sit frozen in the kitchen,

the sound too close, too raw,

a reminder of chaos

that doesn’t belong here,

but stays,

like the cracked plaster,

shivering through the walls.