Bleach's lingering sting

The kitchen light glared down on a streak—

white too bright, too clean.

I wiped the counter again,

but the smell stuck like a warning.

A sharp pulse behind my eyes,

a sour note I couldn’t scrub away.

Bleach fumes curling up my throat,

not the smell of clean,

but of something forced, residual.

The friend’s apartment smelled like sickness,

the kind you chase away with chemicals,

but the scent stayed,

lodged in corners where light didn’t reach,

a reminder that even clean has a bite.