Author S. K. Nicholas

I see you in Coney Island with that mouth of yours. Portions of your body spread across a dozen TV screens; that familiar nose and those breasts pushed together just how they used to be. Kind of like a slut, but not as easy. Kind of like a queen, yet not as remarkable. I’ve got your number, yet it’s easier to get drunk and fuck another. Several beers. Several shots. Knickers down to shapeless ankles as the prick in the next cubical snorts a mixture of coke and cinnamon. My balls ache. Could be cancer, so I masturbate several times a day to get out the badness. I’m not a doctor, but I think it’s working. As I write into the early hours, a wasp lands on my arm causing me to spill my beer. Shaking it off, I fling my Bukowski book at it. Crunched dead, I apologise while memories of taking you from behind flicker somewhere to the left. Such a tasty arse, and the way those tits used to bounce together; if you were a cow, I’d have you milked. There’s a pun in there somewhere for sure, but for now, I sit nursing my balls contemplating the most efficient way of committing suicide. Head in the oven like Sylvia Plath seems the best bet because I’m a coward, and I don’t want any pain. To drift into nothingness as the world implodes. Take my hand baby, and fly into the stratosphere far away from pain. Let me hold your arms behind your back and make you submit. Let me squeeze your throat while lifting your legs behind your head. Such heavenly shapes; such a sweet scent as you skip along the sidewalk catching snowflakes. The taste of you is always on my lips. The indents of your teeth on my chest as bombs fall in the distance. War is the only thing that will bring us together; that and my ability to work the word. I’m not sure what’s more likely, it’s probably the bomb, though. Kiss me in Sweden; have me in New York. Ignite my words and take me to the shores of hell as you bite my hand and refuse to let go.