Institutionally sweaty and sterile. A deep thick concrete plaster scent. Her smell hovers above her as she sleeps. Thick scalp smell. Powder and a prickling of sweat. Using the toilet, the smell of hostaged urine. Dehydrated and sharp. Stagnant water. Mildew, mold and sewage. Wet carcass. The recycled air keeps it thick in here. Pieces of yesterday’s walk. Waves of week old vomit. Mattresses lined with yellow body imprints reek and yawn from time to time. Wet animal smells of women who fake showers. Lost soaps. Body odors crawl over arms and onto tables. Sticks to hard surfaces and stains. The stopped up sink drains of decaying hair. Backed-up toilets. Small strings of stale coffee thread the air. Breath stretches and clouds. Turning milk and toddlers. The guard’s fat thick smell lingers close for a moment. A tiny dab of perfume. Always a smell of something like aloe. Conditioner and lotion sitting in a drawer for decades. In the cafeteria, breath curdles and fogs. Ebbs out like gas. Breakfast is doughy and sweet. A bleach sugar tape that sticks to everything. Maple on my hands. Strawberry juice on my wrist. Abusive parasitic smells of trapped food. People. Something always burns. Today it’s the underside of a pan with a bit of stuck-on bacon grease. Plastic containers and cleaning supply smells mix themselves with the sausage. Cooked skin and fat. Skins of apples brown the air right above. Emit trash smells. Burps release. Disintegrate. Tables of stinking sneakers led one by one to the track. The dying hallways. Thick paint masking tape smells. Outside aromas overwhelm. Breathe in dirt and decomposing grass. Car exhaust fumes waft. Body odors shed as some take to running. Someone snuck in perfume. A thick film of imitation lilac twirls around the yard. Salt sweat skin. Once in a while, a fresh stream. Cooler. Lighter. Sit on this tree stump and you can smell cooking dirt. Metallic snails. The smells coarsen as you near the door. Of trash. Clumping inside, I can smell heroin on Bethie. Vinegar and powder. Armpits and sunned scalps. Dusty skin. The last night whiskey breath of the Pig who tells me I have a phone call. Phone room is stuffy and smells like dirty change. Like your hands after a bowling alley or at an amusement park. It also smells like cream. The thick phone curls and smells like nicotined plastic. Menthol smoke. Unanswered, I hang up and the woman who is next smells terrible. Rancid. One shower per week is the minimum. I wonder if she can smell it. The hallway is scented scrap paper and permanent marker. Fresh muslin from the sewing room. The machine burning smell of overworked plugs and faulty extension cords. At work, in the kitchen, the smell never changes. One part last meal. Two parts trash. A hint of sewer. Dash of bleach. A paper towel seeps up glass cleaner. Thick with chemical spice. Inside the microwave, it is gamey and smells like cough syrup and grease. Trash heaps of turning fruit skins and pieces of hard meat removed from bites are emptied all at once. The only thing worse; the mop that’s dragged around, trailing weeks old peas that smell like plaque and suds brown. From it, mold sighs. The sharp smell of burning leaves and torched paper. Toxic earth smudges absorb in my nose, into my shirt. Back in my room, the air has grown musty. My roommate isn’t here, but there’s a smell like she just might have been. Ordered to stand like this, I can smell myself. The issued soap is not enough. The fat, stinking guard points a smoky smelling finger to the mailroom. A place filled with paper edges and fresh licked stamps. Plastic boxes for postage and cardboard boxes cut open, giving off a smell like stale bread, and turned all sides around for inspection. Hot breath from questions about where and from, whom and when. I haven’t any mail and the officer in charge corruptly chews peppermint gum. Back in my room, I am allowed eight pages worth of deep smoky reading smell. Hints of oil ink smells. The aged cedar-closet bind inhaled. En route to the cafeteria, marijuana smells of hours old roaches stain pockets of air. The lunch sack smell of peanut butter sandwiches put onto paper plates. Fake sweet frozen juice. Thick roasted breath. The frisk guard wears fake cologne. Reminds me of dangling scented tree cutouts in cabs. Acidic drug-smelling Bethie behind me. His nose twitches. He smells it.

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Katie Manderfield is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in Laura Hird Magazine, 3:AM, dogmaticka, and Flask and Pen Literary Journal.