*Loathing

[mynewplace]

x-posted from one of my DeadJournal communities drabble challenge.  It amazes me how much writing allows me to heal.

Loathing. That skin-crawling nauseated bile in the pit of your gut every time you think of the love you gave, the dedication, the hours, the affection, the huge chunks of self that you ripped from your being and laid at his feet. No matter that he treated each one with an awe-filled wonder at your beauty, your depth, the intensity of your love for him. No matter that he looked into your soul, examining the crystalline refractions of your spirit, and proclaimed what he found there good, and worthy of his love. No matter that you could feel the air around you hum with his intensity, his power, his delicious life-force that filled you until you were humming as well, vibrating in perfect pitch with the world surrounding you until you were certain that he was your God incarnate for who else could ever make you feel so complete, who else could expose the mysteries of life to your perusing eye in that way? No matter. For its gone, and the self-loathing you feel for having driven him away will eat up every good and perfect thing he ever found within you. That's what loathing does. No matter whom you try to direct it toward, it always comes back to you.