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.
It waits patiently for a moment to catch you unaware; to remind you it never left. It has a dullness, a darkness, to its ache.
In the background and in the spaces between seconds, making itself known.
that I am still on my feet.
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 –
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