I come to you with stories
I cannot name.
They press against my chest
waiting for a moment when
it feels safe
for them to be set free.

Pain is a language
I find difficult to speak aloud,
and the silence between us
feels like a waiting room
that will never empty,
pressing in on me,
catching my breath.

Two strangers,
white walls between us,
your eyes move toward the clock,
while mine look at my folded hands
resting in my lap.

I wonder
am I just a time slot,
a line on a schedule,
a pulse to be charted,
rather than a person to be known?

I carry problems of the body and the heart
they do not separate neatly,
they are fused,
one intertwined with the other.

I know you, too, are human,
shouldering your own aches
and burdens,
though you never say.
But you are supposed
to be the stronger one,
showing me the way.

Please meet my eyes
long enough for the room to stop spinning,
to speak one sentence
that feels like
a hand reaching out to me
instead of feet
halfway out the door.

If you show me your humanity
even briefly,
I might reveal to you what is hidden
the raw and ragged thing
that truly needs healing.

Trust is not built from minutes and charts
it is formed from moments of recognition
when one person whispers their fragile truth
and the other chooses to listen.

That is all I ask.
See me.
Not as a chart,
not as data,
but as a frightened soul
hoping to be healed.

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.