Author S. K. Nicholas

It always does. Kitsch despair, so in season like your favourite short skirt. So melodramatic like those pills you clutch tight to your chest. Alone as night falls, there’s no going back into the sun. You came undone through your own sense of self importance, and you still drop turds like the rest of us. Everything spinning as your legs turn to jelly, it’s a battle of wits you’ll never win. Static on the tip of your tongue. Empty conversation as you sell yourself like some undesirable, the type you claim to hate above all others. Mescaline daydreams. Bleached sins and the time it takes to be silenced by the hand of fate. Pulling out stitches whilst listening to the sounds of a love affair gone wrong. Music and designer torture, as vulgar as the way you shake your hips on the dance floor. The world collapsing outside, the only thing that means anything to you is the eyes that savour your demise.