Cost of Freedom

He owned me. From the moment he laid his eyes on me, he placed his claim. I belonged to him and he would keep me, and I would be his forever.

And he tied me up with his love and his hurt and I fought the bindings but I wasn't strong enough to break free. Never strong enough.

Yet, the more I fought, the more the outrage of being held captive eroded my soul, until there was no more soul and I began to accept my fate.

I. Am. His.

Like a wild horse, he needed to break me. Over and over again, he broke me until there were no more pieces and the mess of me lay on the ground in a crumbled heap.

And even after he was done with me, he wouldn't let go. Years of being held by the man, unable to fully function. Unable to fully love someone else. Unable to get away from his spell, his invisible bindings.

For years

and years

and years.

I was his. Forever his.

But then, what's this? I wake up and my shackles are gone. He let me go in the night, without warning, without explanation.

And slowly, the realization breezes through me and for a moment, I find my peace. I can go. I can pick myself up and I can leave.

I am free! To love and live and be. Free.

But I don't know where to go. If I was his in the name of love, then what does freedom mean?

I don't know how to move from this familiar place. I don't know life without being his prisoner. I try to put the shackles back on. I want to be held. I want to be a captive again.