I spoke of her. I said it aloud. I said it and it’s very deep, very sensitive, the weakest part of me. I began talking about it. I said that yes, I did love her. It is so serious to me that anyone not taking it seriously blows holes through my heart. It hasn’t happened before. Everyone sees it on my face, hears the story, feels the way my essence reacts to even her name.
He spoke of it as a drizzle. When dear lord, it was a tsunami, an earthquake, a massacre, a knife straight into my being. It made me lose my footing. I couldn’t speak of it this way. It wasn’t just a hormonal thing. It wasn’t just admiration. Fuck, I fucking loved that woman. I loved her for four years. Every inch of my skin was her. An abyss resided within me, all her.
It shook me to the core, something so heavy, treated so lightly.
I see it as so overwhelming, so deep, people either understand it but can’t take further conversation on it, it gives them panic themselves. Or they can’t grasp it to the point where they won’t even admit the severity of the situation.
It’s okay. I understand. But it hit me just how hard insulting all it was, everything in it’s entirety, affected me.