Author S. K. Nicholas

In the woods. In the forest. Gunshot wounds and flowering angel lips. Death, falling like leaves. Piles of rocks, symbols of witches. Broken branches, and shadows growing long like the day. Eyes for teeth. Tightened rope. There’s a river that flows back to the source. There’s a creek shaped like a womb. It gives birth to creation. It smells of new born babies. Like butter and milk, so heavenly and sweet. Lost within, and lost without. Freedom in destruction, swirling like the maelstrom in our hearts. Crosses carved in flesh. Scars as truth. Markers of faith. You wanted what you got, so now you live with it. You asked for these results, so now you stand by your choices. No going back, only forwards into the lonesome night.

Tears of guilt. So ugly and cheap. Dirty ol’ lies, flowing from plastic mouths. Junk food and junk of the hearts. Passive to beauty. Submissive to bland faces. Get with whoever. Fuck whatever. No attachment, just body parts, slipping in and out. Get drunk, and push away where you came from. Origin feared. Footsteps stained with doubt. Hand prints of lovers, fading with the passage of time. Doors to nowhere. Holy soil, once fertile now grey. So easy to be cruel. So indifferent to what it is to be in love with another. But time stands still for no one. Everything’s eventual. All choices have an outcome. All feelings lead to somewhere new. Open and natural. Tender with care. More like a woman, and less like a man.