Anti-Sterile
I don’t like plastic.
Not the shine,
not the smell of sealed air,
not hands hidden in gloves
pretending to be clean.
Hygiene as religion,
sterility as virtue—
everything wrapped,
nothing touched,
nothing felt.
They disinfect the world
until only surfaces remain.
No soil under nails,
no warmth in skin,
no memory left in objects.
A room can be spotless
and still be sick.
A hand can be gloved
and still be cruel.
This isn’t care—
it’s fear dressed as control,
narcissism wearing white,
mirrors instead of windows.
I want dust.
I want breath.
I want the risk of being human
over the safety of being sealed.