Read Juliet Takes a Breath for Free Online

was going to be different from the Bronx. I assumed that I’d have to go vegetarian or at least limit my meat intake to chicken and bacon, the most understandable “can’t live without them” types of meat. Harlowe wrote about not eating meat in Raging Flower .
    â€œRed meat comes from what the patriarchy calls “the industrialization of food” but in reality, it’s the separation of humanity from their own food production and from Mother Earth. It’s also wholly dependent on the enslavement of other individuals and animals. That terror and disregard for life seeps into our souls and bodies with every bite. It’s an absolute poison to the pussy. Don’t believe me? Go down on a meat-eater and tell me if you can’t taste the sadness.”
    I definitely couldn’t “taste the sadness” but I’d never hooked up with a vegetarian so I couldn’t really compare and contrast. “Vegetarian” was another word that I couldn’t connect to. The idea of living with Harlowe in Portland pushed me to create room for ideas outside of my everyday life. Like, anything was possible in that space with her; if she wanted me to be vegetarian, I would. If she wanted me to howl at the moon with a bowl of period blood on my head, I’d at least give it a try. Things that I’d normally laugh at became possibilities from the moment I began reading Raging Flower . Portland could be anything I wanted it to be.
    I imagined that Portland would be a place without bullshit. No piles of garbage lining the blocks, fermenting in the hot sun. No doped-up hoodrats trying to fight each other on the train. No young dudes trying to stick their things inside every girl who passed with winks and hollers. No one getting shot on the street by cops. Just groups of young gay weirdos being able to chill and be free without hassle from anyone. Yeah, everyone would probably be white, but white people seemed to totally be okay with gay stuff and just being different in general. It had to be a utopia if Harlowe lived there and wrote Raging Flower there. It had to be more soul-affirming than the fucking Bronx, right?
    Sitting at gate 14, I texted Ava back:
    Â 
    No revolution here, just sad lesbian me leaving on a jet plane. Life is weird. Call you when I get to Portland.
    Â 
    Still no message from Lainie. Her mix tape was packed in my duffel bag. Her parents didn’t know she was gay or that we were in love. They just thought we were super-close new college friends.
    I’d wanted to say goodbye to Lainie in her twin bed: late at night, deep inside of her, with my lips pressed against her collarbone. But no. Lainie felt it’d be inappropriate and a little odd if I slept over the night before she left for D.C. Instead, we went shopping at Banana Republic—the only store she ever shopped at—so that she could have a new wardrobe for her political summer. After the mall, we said goodbye in secret. Seated across from each other at a greasy, podunk Hartsdale diner that hadn’t changed its appearance since the 1970’s, our elbows rested on paper placemats advertising local businesses. We shared an order of fries. Lainie dipped a French fry into a puddle of ketchup. “Scenes just aren’t a thing in my family,” she said. “It’s not like we’d be able to kiss and be cute at the airport, like in front of my parents. Please don’t be upset.”
    â€œI’m not upset, Lanes,” I replied, touching her foot with mine. “I get it. I’m just going to miss your face. That’s all.”
    Her heart felt far away from mine, like they were beating in different time zones or different dimensions of love. I should have asked for her to fight for us and to shed some fucking tears over a summer apart. If I was gonna spill my truth to my family, then so should she. But I didn’t have those words—didn’t even know I wanted those