Author S. K. Nicholas

She breathes the same as I. These skies that crawl like lice. Acts of terrorism as I take my morning bath. How can a man wash in peace while having the horrors of the world pushed down his throat? The only time I get to feel like a king is knowing my dick still works, and yet they do their best to remind me there’s blood, guts, and religion raging in every city across the land right up to my doorstep. They gauge away at my good faith while all the time I do my best to remain calm. But with every atrocity the newspapers serenade me with, your body becomes more and more golden. If God is seven, then you must be eight. Such luscious locks as I smoke my cigarette looking out the bathroom window at a brick wall. And to think of all the times I took control of your body without you knowing; oh, imagination is a terrible thing, but not as terrible as a bomb that wipes out a motorcade. So why not come round and rest your body against mine. Why not let me wash your hair and kiss your lips as those things we call humans wreck themselves as if it were somehow meaningful. Let’s laugh as the world comes to an end and make love before the water gets too cold. I tried my best to help others, to make a difference, but in the end, I could only help myself. It’s a selfish move, but as you lay beneath me, I don’t hear you complaining. As you bite my wrists and push me in, there are so many words rushing through my head, but the one you want to hear most isn’t one of them. Maybe I’m afraid, or maybe I’m still waiting. Alcohol, misery, depression. The boredom of ten thousand days without feeling anything at all. The hell of being told what’s right and wrong- no wonder so many choose to end the ride early.