Permeated

My shoes squeak

along the polished grey corridor

like fingers rasping

a white balloon.

The smell fills my lungs,

TCP, cabbage, sweat,

sorrow, pain.

I struggle for breath.

Once home I strip and stuff

permeated clothes in the wash,

but the sadness won’t fit

into the machine.

I eat dry food

that will not be swallowed,

and return

by the squeaking hall

to the hand that needs holding.