She walks without a sound, heels like whispers on tile,
and her clipboard’s always full, but her face wears that smile.
Too wide for warmth, too stiff for grace,
like it’s hiding something just behind her face.
She speaks in rhymes she swears are facts,
wears her name tag pinned to a stitched-up crack.
And when she says, “How are we today?”
you feel your spine begin to fray.
She knows which meds make your mind run slow,
which tray holds truth, which vein will glow.
She hums when she tightens restraints with care,
and tucks your screams in like bedtime prayer.
The nurse who smiled too wide,
with lips like a promise carved in glass,
she’ll stroke your cheek while pulling fast–
and you won’t even know what you let slide,
till you’re choking down calm with her teeth inside.
She brings the pills and makes you beg,
slides the thermometer past the leg.
Says, “Open wide,” like it’s a joke,
then watches to see if you choke.
Her clipboard isn’t for notes you make,
it’s filled with drawings that shift and shake.
I saw one once when her grip went slack–
a figure that bled and blinked right back.
She sings to the ones who stop responding,
keeps her perfume just a little too haunting.
And when they wheel you into sleep,
she leans in close and whispers deep.
She said, “You’re one of the good ones,
love–fragile, cracked, and sweet,”
then traced her nail down both my feet.
And just before I blacked out cold–
her smile slipped–and showed something old.