Sponges and Plaster

these walls collect sound

in the plaster,

storing echoes as secrets

that leak out slow

over time like the

dust of tears in the dark

and the lies I tell myself

before giving up on the day,

the strain in my voice,

when I remember words

I wish I'd kept as they

cast a shadow over conscience,

these walls know the ghost

of me, though

I have a hammer, and

the urge to deafen,

a paintbrush and the desire

to suffocate.