Author S. K. Nicholas

It could be an Indian Summer, or maybe nothing at all. It could be love, but seldom is. It could be so many things, but even though we try so hard, it keeps crashing down leaving us with only handfuls of sand slipping through our fingers to be carried away with the breeze. Sometimes there’s despair. Sometimes there’s a silent anguish that blocks my veins causing me to keel over in pain, but after a cigarette or two, it fades like the image of a lover digging her nails into my lower back out of a rage summoned by my legendary lack of compassion. But it means so little now; it’s barely worth mentioning. It could be one of my funny turns, one of those where I want to be as far removed from others as possible; where I wish to live the life of hermit so as not to be polluted by those that claim to be saviours when really they’re snakes. Snakes that slither and hiss and undress and caress and stick their tongues in places that would make a young boy blush. But I’m not a young boy, not anymore, I’m just bored and bemused, just like the rest of my kind. Tiger beer and tiger teeth. Buildings for dead people. Buildings that contain bats and vampires and dumb blondes pouting with their puckered lips resembling those of an enflamed anus. Generations of the same; wave after wave of pricks always pricking for a little bit more. Kick them to the ground, stamp on their stupid faces, and kiss their throats before showing them what beauty really means. Meh, eh, huh, wah? Ugh, whatever. It’s not love; it’s just a ring. It’s not a marriage; it’s a pairing together of two lost souls clinging to anyone rather than no one.