Under the Flicker of Forgotten Fluorescents

I sit beneath the hum of fluorescent lights,

the ceiling tile cracked like an old bruise.

Water stains bloom, soft and dark,

like secrets no one wanted to say aloud.

The air smells of antiseptic and waiting,

clock hands dragging slow on the wall.

I stare up, tracing spiderweb cracks

that whisper neglect through peeling paint.

That ceiling watched me shrink small

in a room where hope came in measured doses.

And the lights flicker,

a slow blink of forgotten time

caught between sterile walls and quiet fears.