Her tanks shudder gently, quietly, softly enough to be unnoticed against the deafening roar of the machinery.

But she feels you too.

The fresh faced, and young on the scene. The old hands grimace, looking at the new blood with something between sorrow and a smirk.

The young worker tracing their finger up the pipes, over her body for the first time.

Do you realize how many chemical engineers and researchers die to poison, cancer, and other diseases caused by their work?

The old hands warn you.

"It's an occupational hazard."

But there, on life support and in your bed, she's still there. The iron deity, her gift eating your body and stealing the years you thought were yours.

You'd given so many to her.

And she'll take them all.

It doesn't matter.

The angel is patient.

And none leave her garden unscathed.

Her handwriting is etched into your very cells, her poison loving you for decades after you claim your pension and try to leave her.

Her fumes, embracing you, holding you, enveloping you

Eagerly searching every inch of you for a crack, a tear, a small seam through which to ply, and seize, and enter you.

But you remembered to tighten your mask today. You remembered your gloves.

Perhaps another time, another kiss, another day.

You, the worker, who lives and breathes her toxic air. You who inhabit her body each day, whose folds and whose curves constantly beckon you to fall, to trip, to become a part of her-

You, who wears the heaviest gear, and thickest mask

to protect from her deadly touch

An angel whose hands were first held in India.

Whose bolts and fittings were tightened in Singapore.

Whose heart and lungs sailed frigid seas

All for you.

Angels who sing without a face or tongue. Gods who have been touched by a thousand hands, every centimeter of her body hailing from parts sourced from all over the inhabited world~

Great goddesses, and you, engineers and mortals, crawling inside her and tending a garden of pipes and pressures.