Author S. K. Nicholas

She snorts coke from the shaft of your cock. You’re worried it’ll go limp, so you think of taking her sister from behind, and everything stays the same. She cuts her wrists but gets bored yeah it’s so boring. Flashing lights and suicide. Daddy abuse and the sensation of drowning as you suck on a cigarette after puking in the gutter. Sanctuary in the scent of her hair. Seclusion in the thrill of a knife fight as you watch semi-aroused. Erect like a nail, and as hard as a fist against a pregnant belly. She cries as you masturbate at the site of turmoil. Not evil, just curious. An appetite for perversion because it tastes better than deceit. The knife goes in. Blood no blood only it comes later when you’re not looking. Her time of the month. Her taste for bodies that won’t leave, yet they always leave. She drives them away and now she’s older so much colder, and that skin of hers isn’t as tight as it used to be. Teeth yellowed. Dead babies in crushed tissues placed between the pages of your favourite book. Everyone possessed by worthless fury; her body a sunflower seed. The nights go on. They offer nothing other than loss. No softened eyes, only temporary bliss given begrudgingly. Her body. Her smile. There’s more, but there isn’t. Fantasising about taking her while having a cup of tea first thing in the morning. A cigarette to blow away the cobwebs as I envision stripping her naked and demeaning her. Control in my kiss; affection as my arm tightens around her throat. Control as these urges spiral like leaves from dying trees. Everything is an end. All is false. Self-preservation and enlarged areolas. Isolation. Derision. She’s a ceramic vase waiting to be smashed. Into a thousand pieces her heart will break, and as I ready myself for release, gunfire will serenade yet another pointless act.