Author S. K. Nicholas

The flesh contains. It restrains us from becoming something more. Like the stars in the sky, we are infinite without even trying. Bones as prisons. The key to our demise. Shackled to self-doubt, the only thing that matters is to keep childhood madness alive. The adult world a deadened mess of machinery. Too many cogs. Too much junk. Hieroglyphics at our fingertips. The ashes of our remedy falling like rain. Sin begins with denial. It flourishes where there should only be freedom. It pains to be just like the rest. Until my atoms come apart, I’m doomed just like them. Clocks and clouds. Gravity no comfort when the only way out is through. Snuff and beer. Pools of crippled believers foaming with wild delight. Shut those eyes tight. Dig your nails into the palms of your hands and wish yourself away. Bunk is the name of what you hold dear. Cheaply so weakly as others move in time to mute applause. Pull your hair out. Pout at warped reflections. You had a lover, but you wanted some other instead. Moment after moment. Separatists split down the middle. Hateful souls, speaking to whoever will listen. They’ll never listen, though. All they ever do is pretend. They just want your body, and they long for your money. No more, no less. Whatever fits, it stinks as you’d expect. And you expect just what you get. Wolves and butterflies, dancing like coked-up scum. Haunted by one, they implode like stars at the merest mention of her name.