A flicker.
Is it?
No,
a spark.

A seed of wrong.
Then red blooms
behind my eyes,
a feeling feral, clawing up.

It builds,
a storm front gathering,
pressure in my chest,
a tightening vise.

Words become weapons,
each syllable
sharpened,
aimed.

Lightning.
Pure,
white,
hot.

Striking,
searing,
leaving only scorched earth
behind.

A force unleashed,
uncontrollable,
and then...
the quiet hum of aftermath.

Too late.