Disembowelment of the Soul

A short description of the brief existence after a love lost. 

Existing in a perpetual cycle of disembowelment of the soul is deafening. The continued silence of a love that has ravaged you from the innermost parts of your body to the insatiable tingling of your skin when you so much as smell the essence they’ve left behind; it is thunderous to the soul in its ruins. That has been the subsistence of many. 

It is true what they say, that love comes to you when you least expect it, when you’re satisfied in your routine and lacking nothing from others. Therein, love is planted at your feet, glistening and still obscure – impossible to distinguish from familiar excitement. But, from the thorns beneath its luminous glow comes a violent shattering of reality and the moment its grasp on you penetrates your soul, sending its poison through your veins. It becomes your sustenance, your only source of happiness, satisfaction, and breath of life. How quickly it can be torn away, leaving you gasping for air knowing full well you’ll complacently accept their standoffish presence instead, even if it means dying while still seeing their face in your last moments. 

It is then that even your name loses its meaning when from your veins this poison is stolen, leaving you hungry and cold. For the better half of thirty days, you writhe in pain, suffering from a withdrawal worse than the most dangerous drugs. Your heart in pieces, your stomach low, your head pounding. Solace is not within reach.

This torture has graced my life as well. But it wasn’t always like this. I had a love once, stronger than my will to live and my want to survive. It filled me with happiness – a jovial existence I enjoyed. 

Through him, I felt life in a different light. The sun felt warmer on my skin, and I could feel every sharp edge from the blades of grass beneath my feet. I never felt more permeated than the day he pressed his lips against my neck, holding my head high, my eyes facing the sky. He whispered in my ear, “my beloved.” In his embrace, I felt the world realign itself around me. My hands around him, my fingertips passing along every groove of his wool sweater, I could smell the ocean in the fabric and appreciate the craftsmanship of the hands who’d knitted it. His chest was now the mountain on which I laid my regrets and heartaches, solid, reliable. For all examples made of loves that consume you, this too was destined for destruction. Still, I held on tighter, hoping that with my grip he’d need me too. 

But these loves, they burn hot, they burn wide and for this, they burn fast, leaving behind the ashes of a life that could have been. 

What advice for this have I? Only to accept every ounce of pain and experience it fully when it ends, for its a sign that you’re still capable of complete love and you’re still alive. When you can no longer fade into them, the nakedness of your existence is a reminder of how bare we can be and revives the instinct to find comfort again in another, even with the knowledge of how painful the end can be. 

This has been a brief explanation of how it feels when love is lost. ©C.J. Leger.


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