Author S. K. Nicholas

Past and present futures. The figure that waits at the foot of the bed. Grinning and insincere, all those mouthed nothings. Those half remembered deaths, exploding in childish minds. Fragments of skull, collecting dust and brittle to the touch. The hanged man, blowing from a tree in lonely fields of scorched corn. His fingers curled, the name of his father nowhere to be found. My words are carried by innocent trauma, the likes of which will never be known. Gradually fading, some whore watches as I lower myself to her image. She feeds on electricity and cheapness. On primal desires and primitive understanding as my veins stretch out on the bedroom floor. Nailed to several crosses, my motives are unclear. My throat unclean. Bottled beer and shame. Cigarettes and caffeine, carrying the body through dangerous days. The soul is weightless, although 21 is its signature. My signature rests between her legs. The cradle of life, divided by six and smeared across her chin. My hands don’t belong to me, but that’s just a lie I tell myself to get by. The sensation of evaporating, creeping like the man at the foot of my bed. My tongue is Lazarus, a crucifixion cut on the side of her left breast. The stench of guilt, seeping into the floral carpet. The way the candle burns in synch with the unravelling of my head. Raised high to the lighthouse, the diamond shatters. The shards of shards that penetrate, that dissolve flesh in the blink of an eye, that make her trembling lips turn from a frown upside down. Holding hands and lanterns, billowing clouds and curtains. In the desert of the real, all roads lead to me. My sister is calling, singing songs of sounds. She’s similar to the man who forever creeps, but not quite. The book with the pages torn out, that’s what he wanted. It’s gone now, just like tomorrow. All exits, that’s what the sign reads. Pointing to lifeless earth, it shows you how to get out. My chest expanding, I pluck a rib and stab it into the ground. She blossoms and flowers. She devours me internally, like a dirty lover always should. Breaking promises and pouring gasoline on an abandoned car, a storm brews on the horizon. Smoke going up to the sky, my mind keeps telling me that none of this is real. That it must be some kind of dream. Or a nightmare. But it can’t be, it just can’t be. That’s just not impossible.