Sterile Breath

The waiting room's fluorescent glare

clings tight, a cold press on my skin.

Coffee cools in a plastic cup,

half-empty, forgotten,

as the air tastes sharp—

a cocktail of bleach and too-bright lights.

The scent is a low hum,

stuck in my nose like a rumor I can't drop.

Time is fluorescent tubes

and the hum of tired chairs scraping linoleum.

Each breath, a note of something sterile

that settles under my ribs, refuses to leave.

Outside, a siren breaks.

Inside, the chemical haze holds its shape,

a ghost imprint of worry

in the scent that won’t wash off,

like the night pressed itself into my jacket,

and I carry it home—

this sterile breath.