Author S. K. Nicholas

Shaving her sex in lukewarm bathwater, I close the curtains and am pleased with what I see. With nowhere to hide, she wriggles from my grasp and moves with grace as I stumble in the midst of a hangover. Spreading behind my skull, the terror of existence wipes me out, and as I convalesce in a darkened room, she lays next to me and undresses. It feels as if the whole world is coming apart and we’re just trying to prevent the inevitable. Collapsing towers becoming dust, we feel the foundations shake as one by one the walls come tumbling down. Placing my hand between her legs, I feel her pinky flesh and can read what she has to say. Her story comes to me like braille, and as the destination races into view, I ease back and watch as she exhales. In a single moment, our lives are contained in the spark of a match. Burning for a second, I blow it out then go down. Digging her nails into the nape of my neck, she draws blood and hisses like a snake. We stretch the night until it snaps like the string of a guitar. We drink to quell the voices that never cease their picking. Prisoners to society. Prisoners of these urges that rage without end.