That kind of love

Mine isn’t the type that takes you under.  This pain is not the sort that’ll eat you alive – the all-consuming, coeur fou.

It’s not that kind of pain, because it wasn’t that kind of love.

No, mine is constant; the sort of pain that sits behind your ribs. Chronic. It waits, patiently, for a moment to catch you unaware; to remind you it never left. It has a dullness;  a darkness, in its ache. Persistent. Unremitting. In the background and in between every second, making itself known. Just enough, that I am still on my feet. Just enough, that I never forget it’s there. It churns, perpetually, away in the pit of my gut, and every now and again it crawls up into my throat and tries to choke me.

I wish it would: take me or leave me.
But it never does. It never will.

It’s not that kind of pain.
 It wasn’t that kind of love.

 – Kellie Wilson

To every last one of you…

To every last one of you that
lured my reluctant heart out
from a place of no danger.
Every one of you
that sweet-talked your way
through cracks in my resistance
with your pretty notions of always.
You, who coaxed down my walls;
took a sledgehammer to the
only defence I could muster
with promises of love in spite
of all of me.
To every last one of you
that encouraged me to want
for something beyond my reach –
who made me believe it
was all possible;
had me hooked,
then walked away like it was nothing at all –
like I was nothing at all.
Like you didn’t owe me a damn thing…

Fuck you for that.