Sometimes I’ll trick myself into thinking I’m doing better. Sometimes I’ll be naive to believe I’m normal and thriving but I forget I’m merely in remission.

The grief will cross its legs and sit benign inside my veins, coiling itself softly around my organs. It’ll sleep in the corners of my mind, waking up when I least expect it. I’ll feel it bubble up in my body and spill out of my throat. A gas reflux that never ends. My heart will squeeze itself into a heart attack and before you know it I’m dying all over again.

I’m terminal.

That’s how it feels.

Every time I breathe.

But I’m not breathing. I’m drowning in my own blood.

A rip tide that never ends.

And I can’t find a way to ground myself against the waves of pain filling up my entire body.

I’ll grip my legs with my fingers, digging my nails in my skin. I’ll break myself open to stop the internal bleeding thats filling my organs. I’ll feel it rip my apart, limb by fucking limb.

A blood curdling scream rising from my gut will escape my throat; the painful sounds of an animal being tortured to death. I’ll keel over holding my insides in to keep myself together but I’m spilling out. It makes me sick to my fucking stomach that I could vomit right on the floor.

No matter how whole I portray myself to be I’ll always feel I’m walking around as half a person. My soul has been cut in half.

You’re never prepared for something like this. You never considered life with only half your soul to lean on. You spend your life running around frantic as you look for them in places that they shouldn’t be, in people that they would never live in. You scream because as healthy as you look on the outside, you’re a bleeding mess that never seems to heal.

You’ll never be the same when you lose your soulmate. This isn’t something you’ll ever bounce back from.

Life is just dark.

Grief never ends. It stays benign.


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