Breath Number 347

Because if I count, I don’t vanish.

Breath Number 347

from “Please Stay Alive” – Section II: The Body Keeps Screaming

I counted 347 breaths today—

in
two
three

out
two
three

again

I breathe like a ritual—
not because it calms me,
but because it’s the only thing I know how to do
when the world starts tilting.

I breathe to interrupt the spiral,
to keep the shaking from turning into sobs,
to make my ribs behave
like they aren’t cages.

Sometimes I count out loud.
Sometimes in my head.
Sometimes with my fingers.

Because numbers don’t lie—
and panic does.

I know the shape of my inhale
better than I know what joy feels like.

They tell me to “just breathe,”
as if I haven’t been.
As if I don’t spend hours a day
trying to remember
how to do it right.

I breathe like my life depends on it—
because it does.

But not in the way they think.

Not to stay alive.
But to stay here—
in my body,
in this moment,
in this goddamn skin.

---

Why I Wrote “Breath Number 347”

and what it means in the language of survival

This poem is not about breathing.
Not the way they talk about it in yoga classes or in therapy rooms where the air is calm.
This is about the kind of breath that keeps you tethered to a body you’re not sure is safe.
It’s about the kind of breathing you do when you’re spiraling, shaking, dissociating—
and no one notices.

This is what it looks like when you stay anyway.

I wrote this for every person who’s ever sat alone in a bathroom,
on a train, in a breakroom, under fluorescent lights
counting in—
two—
three—
out—
just to keep existing.

I wrote this for the ones who learned to regulate their own nervous systems
because no one else ever did it for them.

This poem isn’t a coping strategy.
It’s a war record.
It’s a timestamp of survival.
It’s a breath map.
It’s a grief ritual.

I wrote it for the moments when I wasn’t dying, but I was sure I couldn’t keep living like this— when the panic didn’t make sense,
when my chest felt like a trap,
when breathing wasn’t ease—it was effort.

It’s proof that I stayed
when everything in me wanted to leave—
and the only thing I had to hold onto
was the next breath.

This poem represents the sacred math of staying.
It’s the truth behind every “I’m fine.”
It’s the reason I’m still here,
even when I didn’t want to be.

This poem is my thank-you to the version of me who made it to breath number 347 when everything screamed to stop.

If you’re reading this—
you made it too.

If you’ve ever counted just to hold on—
this is for you.
You matter.
You’re not weak.
You’re still here.
That counts.

---

© 2025 Solena Vyhra. All rights reserved.
This work is part of the poetry collection Please Stay Alive.
No part of this poem, including text or visual design, may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
For inquiries, permissions, or collaborations, please contact: solenavyhra@gmail.com

Illustration and layout by Solena Vyhra.
Typography: Special Elite (poem titles), Signature (author tag).
Published on Substack via Where Silence Becomes Ritual.

This is not inspiration. This is survival.
Respect the breath. Respect the ink.