Someone strokes my hand,
Someone speaks to me,
I don’t like soft. I don’t like sweet.
I don’t want pity.
I am a queen of pity parties without help.
We spend hours, days, yes, months
in the treatment room in her office.
On the leather chair I watch her measure the dosage.
While the medicine drips quietly into my veins,
I nap, I read. I throw up on her floor.
About sickness, health, fashion, yes, children.
We are mothers.
She maybe knows more about me than some others.
There is no pity in her voice, never was.
She is true to herself, genuine, sweet.
I cherish it when
She speaks to me.