The heart of me is all torn up, my throat has caught on fire, like I could pull my insides out and watch the flames get higher. Everything now tastes of blood, or ash, or hate, or lies — I cannot speak, I cannot think, for screams behind my eyes. I need a sign, need anything, to make some sense of this — of what I’m feeling, what I see, what kind of hell this is. I’ll carve away my demons; I’ll bleed away the dark. I’ll have some satisfaction, or tear myself apart.
Vote For Me
Jones, what is the point of satisfaction? It’s just the tearing and the wrenching that makes sense. Satisfaction is a lazy-ass rich person sitting on a beach. I hope they get eaten by a shark. I bet they hope they get eaten by a shark. You and me, though, we are meant for being torn to pieces. We are.