it was something like a mixture of nails on a chalkboard and figure skating

It was something like a mixture of nails on a chalkboard, and figure skating.

 

First off, there were nails. Long ones.

And, therefore, there were fingers. Stubby fingers, that the nails were stuck into

Like clay. And long, thin plastic talons

Itching to crawl across your skin.

 

So, there were these nails.

And then there was his face.

It seemed he was too young to have stubble, but there it was.

When did he start shaving? He seems too young to be shaving.

Anyways, he has stubble.

 

And there were these nails.

They were on his face. And they were moving, just so.

I could hear the hairs screaming as they bent and twisted.

I could feel the skin shiver under those nails.

Mites creeping and crawling, reduced to writhing and flailing.

 

But then there were these nails.

They were horrible to move across his flesh, and his face.

But if you step back, they weren’t just on his face, and striking his spine like a match on a box.

They were dancing.

Figure skating.

His face was the ice, the wood, the floor.

The flat expanse where those nails spun.

 

And, those nails. Perhaps I've mentioned them?

They glided. I want to say they glid.

It was a dance, to be sure.

There was music in it.

A tinkling waltz.

But impatient.

A very, very impatient waltz.

But so slow.

Like you needed to slow down your very being, your self

To appreciate how fast they were going.

                        

It was the nails.

I'm sure of it.

They smoothed, and roughed, and all the while kept this dance.

This death dance.

It wasn’t deathly. Just death.

So it goes.

It was just death.

One more on the pile.