The sorrow, the pain, the misery I feel, tears through my core, igniting the ever-burning passion burried beneath the layers of flesh and the network of nerves that make up the host's body in which my soul inhabits.
It burns, but not in the way everything else burns; it carries no heat and it does not destroy in the same sense as fire. It consumes all it comes in contact with, but with an overwhelming power and not a desire to terminate the entire existence of that that is the subject of its consumation.
It stings and pinches like that of a long, sleek blade, that of a knife, being plunged tip first into the soft tender skin of my heart and slowly twisting, ultimately destroying the flesh and shredding the internal veins, until finally, my heart thuds its last beat and the warm blood ceases its flow to my body.
It devours me, from the inside out, beginning with the bones before moving on to my muscles and veins, before then moving on to drinking my blood and devouring my sking, before finally devouring my personality, my identity, and finishing off with my existence.
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