Author S. K. Nicholas

On the shoulders of dead neighbourhoods, she tiptoes to catch a glimpse of those she thinks are prettier. With her fingers cold from winter sun she digs them deep and swallows away the anxiety that’s been with her for so many seasons. Floating down the Avenue as the parade moves into the distance, she closes her eyes and tastes the colours that still linger. So many reds and oranges that remind her of Sunday afternoons spent lying on her back in her grandparents garden as a child. The grass is warm, and ice cubes crack in freshly poured lemonade. The sun nestlesling in heaven, she breathes in the scent of Jasmine, and God claims her as his only child. There should be a song that captures her beauty, or a painting that displays the radiance of her suffered smile. To the best of my knowledge there’s neither, but one day, when my words are in a better place, I’ll do my best to make her come alive. So many wasted passages of time. So many layers of feeling left to fade like the innocence of stained lovers. They tell me it’s empowering, but how can you be proud of plastic? How can a society see the sense in worshipping what is false when someone as beautiful as she is left making patterns in the dust? Reading Bukowski as the water tower collapses in heavy rainfall, I think about past events and am unsure how to feel, but I know it takes shit to makes bliss. There are no easy outcomes. These pages are not accidents. Throwing away memories would be the sensible thing; to see them swallowed would ease the pain, and yet somehow it’s vital they survive. Inside my heart, I’m drowning in decades worth of regret, and yet I know I’m making a good fight of it. The past will make me. It will set me free despite what they say. This is an act of defiance. It’s a kiss amidst the wreckage of yet another lonely life.