Eight Count

When the world

gets too loud

I turn

into myself—

not away,

but inward,

where my name

still knows me.

I let out a scream

that never learned

how to be polite.

It climbs

up my spine,

remembers every room

that asked me

not to be.

I breathe in

through my nose—

slow,

ancestral,

deliberate.

Air passing through

all the women

who survived

without ever being taught

how to rest.

I release

through my mouth.

I release—

the truth I swallowed

to stay safe,

the lies I told

to stay loved,

the tension stored

in my shoulders,

the tears

that learned

to wait their turn,

the tenderness

they tried to harden

out of me,

the visibility

that feels like both

crown

and target.

This is choreography.

An eight count.

One—

claim the body.

Two—

feel the weight.

Three—

remember the rhythm.

Four—

stand still anyway.

Five—

exhale history.

Six—

soften the jaw.

Seven—

trust the silence.

Eight—

just be.

I close my eyes.

And I blackout—

not from absence,

but from overflow.

Because sometimes

survival

looks like stillness.

And sometimes

healing

is

choosing myself

mid-breath.