A poem about being seen by your doctor
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 …
