Sterile Suffocation

That smell clings hard,

a cold rush of bleach and old plastic

pressed tight against cracked linoleum.

After seven hours tethered to waiting,

I carry it like a loose coat,

stained with the weight of quiet rooms,

the heavy pause between machines and footsteps.

It’s in the air I breathe,

sharper than a shout or whispered prayer,

sweet with the ghost of sickness,

a stink that scratches raw the back of my throat.

Boots print dull on cracked floors,

coats cling damp and ragged

while the steady beeping counts out time

in a sterile language no one speaks.

And when the sun rises,

the smell follows me home,

a scent I can’t wash away.