As their voice faded, their words fully had time to rest in your chest. Their words dug into your soul, they forced their way down your throat and into your ribcage, they bounced and tinged back and forth until they seeped into your heart. There was a dull ache for a second, and you're taken aback by how something that wasn’t physical could have that kind of strong, grabbing, physical effect on you.
It was a tang, a sort of dull sickness that sits and then squirms in the pit of your stomach. Some may even mistake it for the lightness of being overjoyed, except this feeling was darker and deeper and settled lower in the stomach, and the sensation lasts even after the words finally settle in. They pour out of your skin-- in short little spurts they come back and squirm, squeeze, then release.
The feeling makes you want to vomit.
You know that every time you think of those words; every time you let them re-enter your skin, crawl their way down your throat and catch the air in your lungs and bounce around in your chest and rib cage and slide down into the pit of your stomach and rest and release and rinse and repeat, every time you think of those words, a part of you dies.
You’ll never forget words like that, and you’ll never forget a feeling like that. It’s more than a feeling—it’s an effect, an effect that comes from somebody else.
It’s an effect that comes from somebody you care so, so much about, so much so that those words will never leave you.
That’s the worst part about how it really feels to have your feelings hurt.
YOU ARE READING
my random rambles
De Todojust stuff I write about anything I think of to get myself back into writing
