Aspiration

Someone recently pointed out to me the relationship to reading (breathing in)
and writing (breathing out).

I can certainly concur.

I have been panting, taking in everything - all the evidence, the elaborate explanations.
Inhaling the stories, the circumstances, the conditions.
Every thing you spewed out, I took in with gulping breaths,
Holding it all in until my lungs felt like they would burst.

It's toxic, and yet I was afraid to exhale, unwilling to release it.
So I held my breath until I was weak.
Like a child throwing a temper tantrum, I held until I passed out.
Then the survival instinct kicked in - breaths came shallowly,
But my body was so desperate to hang on to  that old, stale air.

The run forces me to breathe deeply,
And afterward, the pen pries my stubborn lips apart.
In and out.  They conspire to make me inhale the new sights
New faces.  Fresh and clean.  Bright and buoyant the cool air comes.
And to make room for it, I exhale deeply, and breathe you out.

Breaths become sobs, but each one cleanses
Wracking and squeezing out the poison.
Until there is nothing left for me to do
But breathe.