I told the doctor
my heart felt like a flip phone
set to vibrate
in the back pocket of my jeans—
buzzing between spine
and tenth-grade desk,
shaking my bones
like a train no one saw coming—
except me.
I could feel my pulse
gathering its coat, like it had somewhere to be.
He said I was within diagnostic range.
He said I was presenting as stable.
I said I felt like a girl
screaming
inside a library.
They said:
What a beautiful metaphor.
I said:
It’s not a metaphor.
It’s a girl.
She’s in there.
She’s still screaming.
And they nodded,
said I seemed self-aware—
like that settles that.
They wrote “no cause for concern”
in my file.
The room was quiet.
The library was loud.
My heart is still vibrating.
I feel it—
right there, between spine and desk.
No one picks up.