I like the way the word, "threat," sounds in my throat.
It sounds like a big rope or maybe a cord about to break or some heartstrings about to snap inside me, my throat, like the letters rhythmically thumping in my chest, like boom-boom-boom. Ka-boom. Heartstrings snapping in my voice box, a silent, small little sliver of a whisper, saying little bits of danger and mystery and hinting darkness and hope being smashed up and ground up.
A threat. Lumpy in my throat, down my chest, sink to my stomach, sink. Just the word, though.
Threats are nothing in real life. They're empty and false and just stupid things to try to make you do something that you pretend you don't want to do but you really want to, even though it's horrible and evil and something no one would accept. Or maybe you don't want to do it, but you're falling for it, because you don't know how to resist and you're scared you'll just sink, and die, and be gone, and no one will remember you. No one will care. You're going to fad