drywall’s listening

someone's in bed, gently breathing

to the tune of two fans' white noise.

face turned mostly into the pile of pillows

willowy trees brush against the window.

thus passes most of the daylight hours.

the walls know the shadows that flit hither and thither

so the occupant sleeps when it's safe.

when the occupant is awake, they are sometimes singing

(right now it's the Hamilton musical and it's to the 

point of literal nausea now, ad nauseam)

or listening to music from sometimes-tinny speakers.

video games, too, high-vaunted and lofty music

to accompany battles against dragons and knights with red inside,

and incongruous '50s tunes for a first-person shooter

about the post-nuclear wasteland. 

there are good days, as well as bad days.

on the bad days: play, listen, sing, sleep.

it's different.

the walls hear typing fingers and shaking hands

shuddering breaths as they try not to cry because

that sound has always earned them sneering, hateful fists.

when they try to sleep, it doesn't go so well.

they mutter out "thanks for that flashback" and twist into a new position,

shoving in earbuds to block out everything else.

they cry.

sometimes the past is not such a shadow

instead, sometimes, it is a haunting figure in the door

and with claws of memory, the occupant's heart is torn open

wide gashes that burble out blood and memories in equal measure.

the walls hear the following sobs, hear the collapse of the body on the ground

begging for mother, for mercy, for more.

there are more bad days than good.

but walls are patient

they will hold up the ceiling and wait and hope

for better days to come.