Holes in You

His words are drill bits, rotating, poking so many holes in you. The torque and axial force, spinning verbatim,  breaking the skin, tearing through your muscles and veins and blood and organs and brains. Your bones are shattering and it hurts.

And when the words stop, the taste of titanium nitride lingers on his tongue, in your mouth and in your throat. You are affixed to a wall, a small picture of the wide open ocean. And battling the waves within the painting is a sinking boat in a storm. The sails are torn and the mast has snapped. Too far out, can't get back. Everyone on board will certainly drown.

But he'll stop drilling, God willing, and eventually take on other projects. The screws will loosen, over time, and you and your picture will drop to the ground to be found one day by the workman's brother: a silent man who talks with his hands and then you will finally understand the beauty of language.