I can feel the violence inside me. Restless and red inside me. Snaking beneath my skin. Like a stranger residing within me, whispering war wherever I go. I can feel it, this unrepentant blood lust. I have tasted everyone else’s blood, and I only want more of it. More of everybody else’s blood, spilled across the floor, and me, on hands and knees, slurping it up. Why do I like the way I look when I’m drowning in death. Why am I pretty when I’m dressed up in someone else’s pain. Why do I like myself better when I watch you suffer.