The little bubbles well up inside.

I will not be kind.

I will murder you with my words.

I will slice you open with my phantom claws which grow and dig into flesh at my behest.

I will kill you. Figuratively.

It’s so satisfying to make you confused and irked and to make you stumble over your words.

You don’t have the passion to see you through this mental joust. I will skewer you over hot coals, and you will roast.

The flames will lap at your flesh...tanning it...turning it crisp.

I’ll season you with my salty attitude towards your infarction.

You’ll pay, and I’ll relish your death.