This is not about the number seven

I was holding my breath for seven years.

Every time a hand slid onto my shivering shoulder - 

Or on the top of my hello-kitty underwear 

crept a slithering ache that made my lips tremble and my eyes burn with anger - 

crept a festering flaw following me wherever I went.

Seven years of carving my arms into beautiful bloody nothing,

tracing over my concrete scabs and over my needle-like goosebumps - 

trying to comprehend your soulless grey face,

white bushy eyebrows, flaring nostrils, bald head, and sinister smirk - 

Each memory invading my bloodstream, 

creeping into my skin - 

PUSHING

PULLING

CARVING

SCULPTING

DESTROYING

My life. My Body. Me.

Or whatever was left. - 

Until...

I unleashed the chaos within me. - 

All my limbs melting off my bones

A fire so rageful and beautifully bright -

you could barely squint your watering eyes to comprehend -

My waves of: Red. Yellow. Orange.

Biting your toes and licking your skin.

Silence from my mouth as your elongated face contorted a look of shock and fear

as the chains around your wrists clicked. 

My lifeless eyes sighed and regained their brown colors.

I have finally - 

exhaled. 

Seven months from hospitalization.

Seven evaluations.

Seven therapists...

But also, 

Seven more seconds of freedom.

Seven more minutes of peace.

Seven more days of motivation.

Seven more months of determination.

Seven more years of inspiration....

And a lifetime - 

Of never holding my breathe for anyone or anything

A G A I N

But hey,

this is not about the number Seven. -