#antiseptic
The room was a blur. Nick’s eyelids felt heavy as he slowly tried to refocus. Bright lights. White ceiling. Smells like… Antiseptic? A hint of vanilla. Nick was interrupted from his observations by an acute twinge, which immediately shifted his attention to his arm, now bandaged and resting statically on his chest.
His head pounded jarringly in unison with his pulse. With his vision finally starting to come together, Nick deduced that he was likely in a hospital bed. He moved his head only just enough to see the window next to him. Luckily, his neck wasn’t suffering the way his head was. The place he was most injured was still his right arm, nothing else appeared too wounded, nor did they reach the same level of pain as his head.
Nick closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, only to be frightened by the sound of the door to the hospital room being swung open. Nick turned his head in time to see only a glimpse of the woman’s face as she quickly turned away from him.
“He’s awake now!” Within a few seconds, Mrs. Docere walked into the room, and the air suddenly gave off a different feel; that of apprehension. A single thought began beating at his mind like a sledgehammer—I wasn’t supposed to be outside that late!
“Nickolas Rey Warring, you had me worried sick!” To Nick’s surprise, Mrs. Docere ran straight to Nick’s bed and hugged him warmly as her dark blond hair fell, hanging just beside his head. She gave off the subtle, warm scent of cinnamon. His expression changed from being panicked to simply confused.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you but-”
“You cannot go outside at midnight! You know for yourself that your curiosity tends to endanger you, so why do you do it?” And there it was. A good moment could never last, not for someone like Nick. He pondered on whether he should choose to mention the door or come up with some other story, regardless of whether it was lies or not. If she had seen it, he could be saved from the lassitude of another lecture. On the other hand, if she couldn’t see the door, Nick would look just as foolish as he had with all of his previous encounters with magic that he pleaded were true.
“I um… fresh air?” Idiot. You absolute dummy—was that really the best you could think of?
“Is the air in the orphanage really that stuffy? You could’ve just opened the window, you know. That’s not worth putting your life in danger.” Mrs. Docere lifted her head away from Nick’s and rested her hands on the side of the bed frame.
To Nick, getting up to walk to the restroom alone would be considered “dangerous,” as was walking just a short distance from the orphanage—apparently.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 10:46 AM UTC
I tell myself, can't see ahead,
But my path is already drawn?
A narrow line in antiseptic light
that runs from dusk to dawn.
Each morning bleeds from yesterday
through walls too white to stain,
and prophecy is nothing more
than habit dressed as chain.
I wake inside a measured room,
where padded corners bloom,
and silence hums fluorescent hymns
against a vacant tune.
Who decides what sane is?
Who writes the rules for me?
If healing feels like suffocating,
is that recovery?
You call this safety, call it care
I call it slowly dying.
Tie my hands, dim the lights,
but you can’t stop me trying.
A canvas binds my restless arms,
fabric biting skin;
they say it’s for protection
I say it cages what’s within.
Once I held a voice so clear
like winter in the air,
now it shatters into swallowed glass
and settles into prayer.
Save me, smiling martyr,
step down from polished wood;
your halo shines in sterile light
it does me little good.
Who decides what sane is?
Who names me unwell?
If I don’t fit your diagnosis,
am I broken — or rebel?
You crown yourselves as cures
while I am tied in shame.
Don’t tell me I am better
just because you need the claim.
Your Eyes blink in corners
of every fragile day,
watching lest I fracture
or quietly slip away.
Rats of thought inside the walls
scratch along the seams;
they gnaw at former purposes
until they feel like dreams.
They ask me, will you take the pills?
Will you say you’re ill?
Will you trade your jagged truth
for something easier to fill?
Who decides what sane is?
What if the system’s wrong?
What if the thing that claims to heal
is what’s been choking all along?
You can catalogue and keep me,
file me, lock me still
but something in me will not die,
and something never will.
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 9:00 PM UTC
Lust is such a pain when held in the mind
A home to some solemn a morning
The outer rim of sight distorted
Never to see for I am blind
How arduous a task it must be filling this void within
Though you try to no avail still this longing persists
Never is it quite the same this flushed face hangs in singularity
Never is it quite the same the caress of her hand around your cheek
This warmth could never fully replace but yet seeks to comfort
On to my own left again am I to this bitter taste
As dark dreams are held fighting to resurface
What is it this wistful yearning to that which I despise
Casting aside vanity's vision as somehow I am left to my own demise
However monotonous the day to day may seem as my mind tapers on
To be trapped between her sheets I find ecstasy replaced with solitude's forlorn
For like moon that sits alone hung in the luminescence of a winters sky
So dull is the ache within my chest
As the darkened walls do double as they revolve around
Only to ruin what bliss I have taken upon myself
For tomorrow is to resurface
And so again I will chase the blame
For all the inevitable I attempted to thwart
Yet it all remains the same
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 3:07 PM UTC
Your presence in my life is antiseptic,
Germs like anger,jealousy and hatred are no more.
Your musical soothing words are
antibiotics,
My pride and ego has disappeared,
I am at peace.
Your beautiful smile is analgesic,
It has relieved me of tension and anxiety,
I am happy.
Your tender touch is anti-inflammatory,
It has soothed my pains and aches,
I am a better person.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne
the length of legs, the depth of eyes
more medical trips and taxicab drives
blood tests, x-rays, candy bars from vending machines
visitors in lab coats
questions
touches
from cold metal, cold skin
antiseptic aromas
waiting in cold rooms, in backless hospital gowns
a flash of skin from the hot patient
next to me, an inviting smile
a ***** of crotches
a wheelchair comes
to take me
away
Dec., 2002
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC