The stethoscope cold against my bare skin

The stethoscope cold, against my bare skin,

reminds me of moments when fear would begin.

A voice on the phone, a doctor’s grave tone,

echoes the worry of sickness alone.

In sterile hallways where shadows creep slow,

I’d watch hope flicker, like the pulse in my throat.

The weight of your health, a burden to bear,

while the chill of that metal laid bare all my care.

Each heartbeat a question, each silence a lie,

I grasp at the stethoscope, wishing to cry.