The Wall

There is a man who stands behind the wall.
Is he mine? Can he hear my call?
If so, he’s still standing behind the wall.

Does he see when I bring home
A friend? Does it matter to him that night
After night after night the friend is different.

More than it matters to me, I’d think
But still, he doesn’t move,
From his place behind the wall.

Does he watch or turn away
Giving me some modesty I don’t deserve.
I don’t know because he’s standing behind the wall.

I rip into their backs with my nails
And pretend I am tearing down the wall
But I don’t want to see him standing there.

A face of silent sorrow, or a mask of hatred
How would my man look on?
As he’s standing behind the wall.

Does he stiffen with each scream?
Faked or unwilling?
Can he hear everything behind my wall?