Author S. K. Nicholas

She sweats dead galaxies through the pores in her nose. She takes off her socks slowly, and as the smoke from my cigarette carries through the window, there’s no way of knowing how this will end. A car crashes through a wormhole she planted with our first kiss. Leaves and trees where once there was snow, the answers have no meaning. Only questions that have never been asked ring true. Relationships are useless if artistic freedom is shackled; the morning cuts and nights smother, but my heart is fine and always shall be. A machete fight downtown with torn off limbs that haunt, yet my morning shit is far more pressing. The world dies, but my infatuation with the shape of her breasts is what interests the most. A navel containing my seed, and the burning wheels that tighten around unworthy necks. This place is hell, but sometimes it can be heavenly just the same. Dead veins and handfuls of hair. Desecrating lovers for no other reason than boredom. A thousand lost days and a thousand empty ways of pretending what you’re doing is meaningful. Palindromes to get her high. Snuff to bring me down. The scent of education, so awful and lacking in soul. Nipples squeezed, and the bottle sucked dry, this English indifference is dreadful, yet it’s all I’ve ever known. Drag the lake and find my mummified remains waiting at the bottom. Take these words, and finger them as you finger the places I deserted long ago. Sharpen your knives and sharpen your teeth. Take that body of yours, and justify what it means to spend a life in search of everything that ends. Smile. Suck. Pretend.