Author S. K. Nicholas

She says she’s dizzy. She stands with her arms held high to the rain and knows the fire in my heart must be true. She stumbles. Maybe it’s the two bottles of wine, or perhaps it’s the sight of me revealing myself in the shadows. The shadows are my home; they don’t judge, and they don’t care. These nights of poor bladder control mixed with the urge to bring chaos where sterility reigns supreme. Walking with no footsteps, the bridge sways in high winds as my sense of self is left behind. Read these words and know my desires live on in the forces we conjured where once there was only love. Love is an idea, and ideas outlive us all. They remain despite everything. My reflection isn’t my own. I’m a sum of my parts, and this is what I portray to the outside world. It’s my greatest painting; a work of art. To live is to balance, to hone one’s signature, and to create a mask that fits all occasions. But when that mask slips- when it falls to the ground as you slide that dress off such beautiful hips. Well, it makes me do things I’ll surely regret in the morning. I’m but a relic, a flavour you felt on the neck of someone long since gone. But if you would only open yourself up and worship eternity as much as you do the bland ideals of a culture you claim so much to hate. Every time I take you- every time we come close to feeling something more than what they want us to feel- know what it is to be alive. It’s in the way my nails dig into your arms; it’s in the way my lips rest against yours. We are human machines. We are mushroom clouds that dissolve all that has no meaning. Your breasts as you bury your head beneath several pillows; your belly as it collects the ghosts of my ancestors. On the brink of despair yet again, I glimpse a photo from your childhood and suffer another breakdown. These tears- they are seen only by me, but still they flow. Like a river in the forest; like a passage of time with no witness.