Sterile

The bleach is a wall you can't climb over.

It gets in your throat like a dry piece of bread.

I watched the nurse swap the yellow bag,

heavy and warm, for something clear instead.

There’s a cup of lime gelatin on the tray,

sweating beads of sugar in the artificial light.

It’s been half-eaten for three hours now,

a neon green slump in the middle of the white.

I smell like boiled carrots and floor wax.

I scrubbed my arms until the skin went pink,

but the fourth floor is stuck in my pores,

bitter and sharp, like a copper sink.