Linoleum and Locker Hinge

I’m just here to drop off an inhaler,

but the smell of the floor wax is a trap.

It’s that wet-mop scent that sticks to your throat,

bitter and clean and smelling like bad news.

I walked past the locker with the dented door,

the one where the blue paint is chipped away,

revealing the gray, tired metal underneath.

It feels like I’m trespassing on my own ghost.

The bell rang and the sound was a physical blow,

and for a second I checked my empty wrists

to see if I’d forgotten my homework again.