Author S. K. Nicholas

Revolving doors and warm revolvers as she sticks her fingers in to the sounds of Mogwai. Deeper even deeper they go as she bites thin air as the chemicals electrify her eclectic mind. Her vulva mirrors Scandinavian mythology. She paints with her nipples, and then she makes me suck off the oils when she gets bored. Finding photographs of my old lovers, she burns them with a lighter then makes me take her in the parking lot that overlooks a torched animal shelter. The dogs burned for hours that night, and although I was sleeping, their screams invaded my dreams enough to wake me in a cold sweat. She says she didn’t do it, but there’s just no way of telling. Ashes and canine teeth beneath our feet, we move through the shadows sniffing glue to make us feel like five again. Chinese burns and needles that pierce pale skin; the taste of milk from paper cartons and love letters written in crayon. The sky is a bubble, and the waters of the oceans spill from her womb like blood gushing from an elevator. Bottled beer eases the boredom, and while she sleeps, I watch her from the foot of the bed. She is a separate entity, and yet I wish she weren’t. To escape and live inside her belly; to hide behind her ribs, safe and protected from a world that knows only fear. Her breathing is heavy, and as I pull the blanket up to her shoulder, all I can think of is how temporary we are. Tablets ease the hangover, but I know they’ll be plenty more. We live our lives and rejoice in the golden rays of sunshine that meet our faces, and yet tomorrow is but one step closer to an end I’m doing my best to resist. Slipping in and out, she turns on her stomach. The shadows on the wall, they spread to the side of her face. With each minute that passes, they take another piece of her that used to be mine.