Half Heard in the Stall

The door clicks shut, a slow sigh trapped in stale air,

voices seeping through the thin walls,

cut sharp like a scalpel.

A whisper fractures into shards—too close to be distant,

a plea, a curse, something not meant for ears like mine.

The graffiti peels, half-words flake off like dry skin,

smears that tell stories but don’t say everything.

I press my ear back, catch the edges:

"You think I don’t see,"

"No, it’s always like this—"

"Can’t you just let it—"

But the words twist and crumble,

like the chipped paint

splitting under cold fluorescent light.

They cut through me,

a quiet fight in a cramped room,

masks dropped for a moment too long.

I stay,

listening,

and then I leave with a weight

that won’t let me go.