She used to glide like whispers on tile,
clipboard in hand, never needing a sword.
Lipstick red like a trigger pulled slow,
and a grin like she knew what you’d never show.
She’d tap your chart like a metronome,
say, “Progress, darling,” in that polished tone.
And when she smiled, it felt too wide–
like something else was tucked inside.
But three days ago, the halls fell still,
no clicking heels, no sugar-pill thrill.
Her meds sat stacked by the desk untouched,
and no one’s dared to move them much.
The nurse with the smile is missing now,
no explanation, no shift, no vow.
She vanished quiet, like a pulled-back breath–
and even the staff won’t guess her death.
But the silence thickens where she stood,
like the ward remembers what it should.
Her office is locked, but someone goes in,
the blinds stay drawn, the light too dim.
And last night, I swear I saw her file–
half open, stained, and grinning vile.
They’ve reassigned her rounds, replaced her key,
but the new girl won’t make eye contact with me.
She trembles when she walks past Room Ten,
the one where the nurse stopped coming in.
I found a note in the laundry cart,
written in red, in looping art.
It said, “They’ll miss me most when you forget–
but darling, I’m not finished yet.”
Now when I sit for my morning pill,
the new nurse flinches if I stay still.
And when I hum the song she taught–
the light above flickers like a thought.