I oftentimes find a bitter, but comfortable solace in feeding this insatiable anger.
It's the variety of anger you feel when there is nothing tangible at which to direct it. It's the agony of a dying love that devours you from the inside out like a swarm of starving maggots pulsing beneath the flesh of the recently deceased. It's the feeling of surviving your own inevitable destruction only to be condemned to a life as a disfigured and monstrous shadow of your former self. It's the coldness felt when looking into eyes full of disgust and contempt upon a smiling familiar face. And it is the distress that comes with the feeling of abandonment graced upon your shivering form whilst lying alone in a puddle of crimson.
There is however, an escape from this anger that threatens to burn uncontrollably until it reduces my already fractured vessel into a pile of ashes that shall blow away with the cold wind and become caught in the throats of those whom I cherish, turning to tar in their already decaying lungs.
It's the kind of escape felt in the sting of the icy blade sliding across your unsightly pale skin, leaving behind an exquisite stream of red. It's the sweet relief felt in every drop of blood spilled by your hand, whether it belong to the guilty or innocent. It's the joy of letting your anger lash out like a solar flare and watching as it blisters the Earth itself, devoid of any conscience or remorse. And it shall be the comforting release expressed through involuntary sputters and coughs upon feeling the welcome embrace of the rope tightening around your aching neck.