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at times, your rage can be so firey it destroys you. like a puddle of magma at the pit of your core, occasionally dwindling, but never quite extinguishing. the flames rise to the tip of your tongue at your highest points of anger and let out blazen words of fury—a distraught orchestra of detriment. your enraged actions are like notes of a music sheet, each following statement gaining power like a sick crescendo.
at your demise, the infernos within you—caged their whole life—escape your now husk of a body and run free with an excitement akin to a bird when it escapes its enclosure.
freedom.
ah, yes, freedom.
lyssa odin wanted freedom. that's why she jumped off that cliff, in a futile hope of ceasing to exist.
