Septennial

Every seven years something in me breaks on purpose.  

Not loudly.  

Not beautifully.  

More like a quiet snap in the dark  

that I pretend I didn’t hear  

while my whole body whispers  

you did.  

The seventh year always finds me softer than I meant to be,  

like my edges got tired of pretending  

and melted into something trembling and honest.  

I hate it.  

I need it.  

Both truths sit in my chest like mismatched roommates  

arguing over who gets to hold the steering wheel.  

I swear the universe watches me unravel with a smirk,  

like, “oh she’s entering her chrysalis era again,”  

while I’m over here crying into my own hands  

because growth feels like grief wearing a nicer coat.  

Seven years of loving wrong,  

of loving right but too hard,  

of loving people who didn’t stay,  

of loving versions of myself I had to bury.  

Seven years of trying to be gentle  

with a heart that keeps flinching at its own pulse.  

And now the cycle turns—  

slow, inevitable, almost tender.  

It doesn’t ask permission.  

It just arrives,  

like a storm that knocks politely before it ruins the porch.  

I feel myself changing in ways I can’t name yet.  

A little darker,  

a little funnier,  

a little more willing to admit I’m scared  

and still walking forward anyway.  

If this is my septennial shift,  

then let it take what it needs.  

Let it peel me open.  

Let it teach me how to hold myself  

without apologizing for the weight.  

Seven years to ache.  

Seven years to soften.  

Seven years to become the version of me  

who doesn’t run from her own shadow  

because she finally realizes  

it’s been trying to follow her home.  

— LR 🖤