Bleach and Ink

The air in this room has been sitting too long,

like water in a shallow dish.

Then I crack the spine of the gift—

a study of cells, a heavy wish

from an aunt who remembers a version of me

that died a decade ago.

The scent hits first: a clinical sting,

cold bleach and fresh-pressed ink.

It doesn't smell like trees or dirt;

it smells like a factory trying to think.

I run a thumb along the jacket’s edge.

The paper is a sharp, clean knife.

It cuts the stale heat of the house

and promises a different, harder life.