Author S. K. Nicholas

I’m nightcrawling, but I’m not sure what for. It could be my coyote eyes, or perhaps these bones that cause me to dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands whenever there’s a pretty girl nearby. The stinging lasts for days, even when I take her in the elevator of our apartment block- the one with the cables that resemble slashed vocal chords. Despite my transformations, the nights are mostly gentle; they resemble the plump cheeks of a baby, or perhaps the rump of a lover sprawled on fresh bedsheets. Eating pizza as a carjacking occurs right in front of our eyes, there’s no panic, not from me, anyhow. I like the violence that lurks just beneath the surface, not the kind that gets in your face. It goes the same for lovers too; if someone jumps out and grabs your attention, let them go. If they crawl beneath your skin and slowly make you choke, then it can be as real as you want it. There are certain things I’ve done I’m not proud of. Times I’ve treated people well below what’s acceptable. My choices leave me feeling disjointed and hollow, yet there can be no change. The future I require has been known to me since the beginning, and although the journey towards it may not have been fruitful until just recently, it’s never let up in calling to me in the darkened hours when no one else was willing to listen. When my hands slide around her thighs, I feel unreal. When she bites my throat and digs her fingernails between my ribs, I grab her hair and yank it so she drops to her knees. Pouting in her dress, the city breathes in my ear; it whispers of delivery amidst the wreckage of collapsing facades. She is the door; the one that helps ease my passage to a plateau beyond what is known. When I take control, there’s no question of the end result, and yet it is she who rules. At all times, even when she’s so far away, it is she who governs.