Love is pain.
Love is a knife in the gut.
Love is a slimy cord wrapped around your insides, swelling and tightening until you can barely breathe and you’re doubled over, white-knuckling the toilet.
Love is holding your hair back while you vomit your life away.
You can’t blame her for doing this to you.
Not just because of love, there’s something about the way your body tries to eject every last thing that it ever contained, a sensation that crowds out abstract ideas like blame, flooding your mind with pure, physical sensation.
Your stomach has been empty for ages—hours? lifetimes?—and yet the painful storm of abdominal convulsions does not subside. There’s nothing left but a trickle of bitter yellow that inspires more retching as it crosses over your tongue to pass your lips.
It isn’t her fault. The fault is entirely with your body—human, human, weak, human—and your disgust must properly fall upon the flesh that quails from her mere proximity.
Let it suffer, though it communicates its pitiable agonies to you such that you confuse it for your own.
In the end, when it has given up, when it expels its negligible strength alongside its contemptible weakness, you will be closer to her than ever before.
Never human, not her. Better than. Greater. Worth all of this and more. Worth everything.
Remember that.
She chose you for this, and when she kisses the bile from your lips, you thank her.
You thank her for inflicting herself upon you, for her theft of you from your friends and your family and your worthless flesh.
Just a little longer until you slip away with her.