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