Author S. K. Nicholas

Wrapped in blankets marked with cigarette burns, she crawls deformed at the foot of the bed as my hand slides up her laced skirt. Raining hard as my body lacks the energy to do anything but recover, in a field of lepers and dogs and cunts, the nature of my illness is nearby yet unseen. Life has taught me to keep quiet, because the minute my mouth opens, I’m cut to pieces. So instead, I stalk the shadows where the lonely animals go at night. Observing lovers in gas masks parading the sidewalk as if it were a fashion show in Milan, the wounds on her inner thighs are self-inflicted. Nude as a car crash rolls into view on the corner of some other block, she clutches the blade and asks God not to make her do it. He doesn’t reply. As she dreams of a world where love and loss weren’t so intrinsically linked, the blade digs deep and draws blood the colour of her gums. She’s not to blame it must be said, yet she brings it on herself, for she keeps on seeking salvation in others when it must be found within. Throwing stones against old people’s homes, the lower one’s set fire to mattresses while their homeless owners are out searching for food. Precious they never feel, they put razor blades in bars of soap and feed rice to pigeons that should know better. White horses rushing through tired veins, I suck on a cigarette and flow down the freeway. Rings on twisted fingers as I’m born again for the seventh time, we’re blind in torture and soaked in the aching sense of twilight-tinged pain. Yearning for the kiss of another as the oceans wash over our stained hearts, we need to stay silent, because silence is beautiful. Dream because you want it all. Dream because it’s the only thing you’re capable of.