metaphoricallove

You drill into my knuckle. A power drill—moving slow.

Our eyes lock as bone splinters: crunch.

I don’t feel it – though I know I should.

You don’t notice -

The drill continues turning: steady, clockwise. My knuckle is a crater.

You pause only to brush the dust of me from your shirt.

I watch the fine powder settle on your collar – my bone, my blood, a pale constellation.

Still, I don’t flinch.

You ask if I’m comfortable. Your voice is gentle, as though we were sitting over tea.

The drill hums in your hand, waiting.

I nod.

Because what else is there to do, but agree?

I am as hollow as the crater.

As hollow as your smile.

As hollow as the slow, steady turn that will not stop until nothing of me remains.