Hysteria

By midday, your hands are doing it. The tremor. A cup of coffee rattles against its saucer. A pen skates off the page. You press your palms flat against the cool wood of the desk, but the wood only learns to tremble with you. This is what they fear in you—not the scream, but the frequency . The way a woman’s panic can tune the very air to a different key.

In the waiting room, you sit perfectly still. Your spine is a ruler. Your ankles are crossed. You smile when the receptionist calls your name. But behind your teeth, a choir is screaming. It is the sound of every errand you ever ran on four hours of sleep. The sound of every calm down whispered into your ear like a lullaby for a bomb. Hysteria

The world pulls back like a curtain. Your skin becomes a single, raw nerve. You can feel the spin of the planet. You can hear the blood moving in your own temples—a roaring, oceanic tide. You are not broken. You are too open . Too alive. The sob that finally breaks free is not grief. It is a release valve for a pressure that has been building since girlhood. By midday, your hands are doing it

And for one terrifying, glorious moment—you were the most honest thing in the room. A pen skates off the page