Guarding the gates of heaven with one-armed scissors, we make notes in journals that will become nothing more than ashes. Embracing in the maelstrom, we come undone to a soundtrack of slashed throats and grinding teeth as angels pluck feathers from their dirty wings as they fall through the air before crashing through the roofs of parked cars and ambulances. Kiss me like you mean it- tease these wounds as if your life depended on it. No office jobs only the smell of flowing alcohol in bars that line the strip like the jewels that line the insides of your thighs. No time for tameness or lameness or forced smiles in hallways and balconies adorned with plastic plants- only your body against mine as flames engulf the streets burning all those who never believed in our words. We age but don’t grow old. We suffer but rise from the depths as the rest crawl inside themselves and rot. Tequila and salt and slices of lemon as beads of sweat trickle down your arms and back. Vodka and Redbull and cigarettes with no filters while huddled together beneath canopies in beer gardens as some blonde sings in a rock band that can’t play music. As we head inside and dance around the jukebox to the sounds of The Smiths the night is bliss and we are blessed and not even a thousand hangovers will make us ever wish for anything less.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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