Author S. K. Nicholas

I walk down a narrow lane and I feel the back of my head for the bullets.  I can see the ribbons dancing.  I’m rumblequartzed, and strangely phlegmatic.  Crunch go my feet in my boots; when I reach out my arms scrape the double glazing on both sides.  I am welcoming and yet ponderous, waiting and prepared with the scripture.  I can smell the rust, my feet are still damp from puddles.  I could fuck you in this old, disused garage and our handprints in the dust would last for decades.

We tiptoe through the wreckage and dare each other to burn our intials into our forearms.  You can cheat with your straight lines but I have to grit my rot and endure the curls.  I am fucked, burned and stolen.  The smell of melted hair hangs as you try and set my knees on fire.  I’m grateful.  I’m grateful…