Time to Work on Me

 There are soft chairs, a small sofa.

The waiting room is quiet, still.

Though trying to avoid it, my eyes glance to the woman next to me.

She leans ever so slightly towards me,

“Good job being here.” Her voice full of compassion, meaning, bravery.

Tears I didn’t know were hiding sting my eyes.

My heart leaps into my throat, barely letting my response escape.

“Thank you.” I whisper back.

Time to work on me.