People make me angry.
So incredibly angry.
I am a temperamental being, and am easily frustrated or irritated. But anger is new.
It gets to a point where my internal rage is at risk of exploding.
But I am very rarely outwardly angry. You've not experienced my anger.
It would hurt people, I know this much. So what do I do? I keep pushing it further down, searching for more crevices in the deep, dank recesses of my mind. Thus far, it's been an effective shock absorber. That is correct; I absorb the aftermath stemming from tumultuous earthquakes, violent eruptions from the blood lava that brings me to life. Each day, I find myself ebbing in and out, bleeding into myself.
It scares me to think that someday, someone might see all that is raw within me. The putrid stains left on the wallpaper of my brain, the ugly remnants of my own insanity having feasted upon me. It makes me cry, because of what my anger is insidiously doing to me. I cry because I keep myself alive so that I may destroy.
