Author S. K. Nicholas

Compressed air for dying souls. Lovers falling through the cracks in a winding pavement going nowhere. My sweetheart, say you love me as the insects dance without minds. Just bodies in flux. Just an assortment of muscle and self-loathing swaying to crude choices of prosthetic musical tracks. She pleases him. She deceives like a catwalk queen, all hollow and glamorous and artificially clean. Pretend you have no fears. Pretend you have no history. The masses you seek approval from, always sinking beneath the weight of their guilt. And the guilt never goes away. It haunts just a little bit more each and every day. You can’t run from what you’ve become, and you sure can’t hide from a history carved into stone. It’s in the lines on your face and the marks on your ever distorted flesh. Smeared sin, so dreadful as it drips from your chin. You look into their eyes, yet all you see is your own, pointless reflection. Camouflage and the sting of rejection you’ll do all you can to cover as you lose yourself with every forced encounter. It’s not sexy, and it’s certainly not seductive. Modern romance. Chemical mistakes and the need for a witness. Someone who knows what you’re thinking. Someone to vent to because the world isn’t listening. So many faces, all so different and the same. Washed out beauty, a malaise of terrifying proportions. Become legion, and lose all that ever set you apart. That unique spark. That essence. Those shapes you made with your hands I had no way of deciphering. Patterns in your signature kiss, and the way those lipstick marks never came off my favourite shirt. Stood in the rain like angels as the town dissolved around us, such moments go beyond the cheapened dreams they sell. Such wonder the likes of which they will never get to taste. Changing faces and mirrored images lost in the snow. These days as pages, dog-eared and left unread in boxes beneath your bed.