To be loved feels like freedom, I guess. I’ve never experienced it. Well, I’ve never experienced being loved and freedom at the same time.
To share one breath between two lovers is like inhaling life over and over again. What one breathes out, the other breathes in, each time fueling oxygen to a body in need of it. Just breathing. Surviving together. That’s love, I guess.
To be loved feels like freedom,
The kind of love I knew was coupled with anger and conditional favors. Breathing didn’t come easy. Shared breaths were filled with toxic smoke from the end of his blunt. The blunt being a metaphor for his trauma. Like second hand smoke, I felt the spirit of death enter my body. When it found an exit through screaming tears and the ripple of my punches to my own head, I saw it stare back at me in mirrors. I wasn’t myself anymore. I was taken over by his smoke. We continued to breathe as if the air was healthy. With each breath we felt our lungs close. Still, we inhaled together not really knowing how to do it alone. Freedom is what escaped us.
With every inhale came new life. With every exhale came redemption.
One day, the oxygen didn’t come back. For a moment, the spirit of death in my body found residence in my heart. I suffocated in my own depression, opening my mouth for air, but receiving nothing. So I crawled to a new place, outside of the walls of the love that had kept me trapped. I forced breath to come upon me. New air filled my lungs. I exhaled the spirit on my heart. Death left me slowly. With every inhale came new life. With every exhale came redemption. Day in and day out, learning how to breathe my own air. Surviving, alone now. That’s freedom, I guess.
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