A Room That Breathes Disinfectant

Plastic chairs align like silent guards,

their arms worn smooth by hands

that tremble or clutch with empty hope.

The air—sharp, clinical,

a scent that slides beneath skin,

sticky with bleach and too-clean floors.

It smells like waiting swallowed whole,

a scent that pushes back tears,

that claws at the throat,

and makes you count the seconds

until you can step outside

and leave the sterile cold behind.

This room breathes disinfectant,

holding stories too sharp to speak,

the smell a thin line between life and loss,

between cold steel beds and hollow prayers.