I am so pissed beyond belief its ridiculous.

I hope that the heat from a thousand fucking suns burns through you so that you melt away.That the infernos of hell obiliterate your soul into pieces so that you can never have one again. I want you to drown in an ocean of blood, smother and be suffocated by it all. The devil grasp you by your fucking self and should drag you down. The bones in your every body shred into little tiny swords to cut through your skin. And that is what i feel right now. I have never ever been so pissed or hurt or used like this, and....

All this will probably subside soon.
And it hurts me but its true--
I was apparently worthless to you.


Ironically I just read this line in chapter four, and thought it went perfect with my poem and how pissed i am.

"Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. i hate rarely, though when i hate, i hate murderously."
That line really just went with exactly how i am, and this poem or story i just did. That is so weird I wonder if reading that line was coincidental or not, right after I wrote this poem. Apparently i have a bit in common with Anais Nin.