The Wallpaper Knows

the floor’s too clean like someone scrubbed out a murder. the windows don’t show anything but a brick wall. this room might be a coffin with better furniture. he leans on the kitchen counter, flicking a lighter that won’t catch just the click, over and over, a metronome counting down to madness. i sit in the corner chair, and watch the wallpaper breathe. the fridge hums low, some funeral song in a language i forgot. and my jaw aches. i haven’t been clenching, but it aches all the same. he doesnt talk, but every time he shifts, the air rearranges itself. i feel it in my bones, like bad weather coming. he’s got that look post war, but he didn’t win or lose. just dragged his carcass back and decided to rot upright. i keep waiting for the door to open on its own. for a gust of wind or a miracle, maybe the landlord with an eviction notice and a loaded pistol. then somewhere upstairs, a woman laughs. it cuts through the ceiling like a straight razor. i envy her. whatever the joke was, it meant she wasn’t down here.