I'm bubbling with it. Like tar it sticks to the finest of fabrics, almost near impossible to get off. To beseech the sickening squelch of the pop and the churn of said corrosive feeling is to drown in it. This tar runs through my veins in the pace of a sloth, mixing in with my own blood to create a noirceur ichor. It gurgles from my throat spilling out in floods, swallowing the condemned as my poison tongue laps at whatever remnants it gets. This is your home now. Live in my desolation for earning my hate.