Author S. K. Nicholas

Lost in the wreckage of a car crash with pieces of metal in your belly, I attempt to lift up your skirt, but you just push me aside. Teeth marks in my left hand while you play piano. Such beautiful sounds you make, but as the blood flows from our wounds, the atmosphere turns sour. I never did like your face anyway. Waking up with a hangover and drinking champagne, I puke in the garden then read Kafka. On the threshold of death, my mind was on the brink of coming apart, but as the day wore on, I pictured your breasts more and more, and things turned out okay. Solitude a must. Isolation vital. You asked if you could come over but I said no because I wanted to sit in the dark and think about things. That’s what I do because it makes me feel at one with God. There’s ringing sensations in the back of my head. Trapped nerves maybe. Reading Henry Miller, I picture you in your panties with strands of dyed hair covering your nipples. They’re not erect, but they soon will be. There are bears drowning somewhere in Russia, and in Syria, they’re burning guys alive, all hog-tied with their guts full of damned religion. I saw flesh dripping from bone, and laughed at how meaningless it was. Then I took a bath and lay there in silence, not moving, not thinking. It’s coming to that time of year again. Almost five years now since she died. I put on a face, and trick others into thinking I’m okay, but the rage is always there. It never leaves. Haunted as I dried myself while stood before the window, the rain eased my pain, so I lit a cigarette and imagined what the end of the universe will look like. The death of everything mirroring the death of lust as I lower myself thinking of cheapened torsos, a dog barks in tandem with a clap of thunder. Those pointless days are long behind me. I’m not like them, and I never will be.