My stomach is filled with molten things, but I will be able to feel more love than you ever will. Inside my stomach and throat pipes the hate remains incompletely digested. Our bodies cannot digest our own blood.
There happens to be silt film foaming on top like the fate of a desecrated porcelain sink, a vessel that ceases to be drained. This vessel will always be able to feel more pain than you ever will. The depth of feeling is all that there can be.