Author S. K. Nicholas

Smokers hunched over cancer sticks in the rain. Women with bodies boundless in heat. Eyes searching, they connect and seek what they want. They covet, as do I. My illness hidden until it’s too late; I let them in and make them dance to my tune. Their features smeared upon cracked mirrors; the night is red and swollen. It pulsates like sex. Germs at the back of my throat and ripped off fingernails discarded upon spiral staircases. A Brunette with the ability to see the future. Real teeth. Real hair. Before the bombs, nature so wonderful. Beauty organic like the way she spread her legs without restraint. Specifics are lost amongst bitten lips. Caressing flesh in the midst of a drunken crusade, nothing can save except for sleep. Sleep through it, and you’ll be okay. Hibernate. Be dormant. Wait until the time is right to come alive again. Extracts from a novel that taunt on a daily basis. Words that haunt and seduce in equal measure. Others have their places, they have their comfortable globes of silver and gold, yet they mean nothing to me. Each time they sing the praises of what it means to be content, I hate a little bit more. Each time they pose with shit-eating smiles, I sharpen my digital pen and prepare to attack. Their insides like rotten vegetables. No tenderness, only bones sticking into dried out holes. Generation dead, the age of infection. Putrid like hidden truth- the kind they keep buried beneath layers of cheapened deceit. People come and go. Between heaven and hell, we entertain banality like faith. Generation dumb. Raised high on flags above heads of sacrificial lambs. Repeat all failures. Pretend you’re happy. Repeat the process of a journey lived a billion times over. Can’t you see why it’s so appalling? Can’t you see why the screams never cease? Useless like junk. Defunct like the past.