Author S. K. Nicholas

Muscles widened. Penetration. A baby falls from a balcony on the fifteenth floor. Sky-rise. Cauterize. Suckling the milky mother on the outer reaches of the Milky Way. Snowflakes adore her battered thighs. Knife in. Knife out. Act one, verse four. Father cries, and mother collapses with shortened breath. Phantom rage behind my ribcage. Entrails tied around her wrists while face down upon the duvet. Vermilion. Crimson. Depression in the rings beneath her eyes yet my guts meddle with something else. Grief is not a disease, but love is. Washing tablets down with wine, I fuck her even harder. Pitiless monster kept together with stitches and memory. Hands made of distant branches, blonde teen, ripped to shreds as fantasy takes hold. Her dress of no use, she’s exposed to my fears without even knowing. The whoring ways of nature. Obscene and organic. Fertile ground for idiot lovers. Insects in their sex, and tedium in their bellies. Pour a glass of something strong, and then draw a diagram of her cervix. Trace those footsteps back to her hips. Pinpoint the forest she resides in, the one where she flowers the most. Her insanity is an oak tree. Her birth destroyed and burned and made hideous when I ignite the fire that will bring her down. Sleepless bodies in flight. Wet like her bare feet, and as banal as identity. Genocide of sperm. Weeks spent in bed. She takes it without speaking, just like a good girl should. She wants outer pain; I want inner. She cuts, I drink. Flesh so vulgar; neurosis sometimes cute in the right light. Good and evil. Women as obsession. Man defunct. I’m somewhere in the middle, hopelessly succeeding at both.