Deadfucks and gasoline and eroded enamel from drinking too many fizzy drinks. Lady bumps and ankle socks and fantasies involving a sea of broken wood that drowns a thousand Japanese workers as they stand in awe of the tsunami that comes racing towards them just like a comet. Blue Eyes. Green eyes. Dreams of mutilated dogs that whimper while licking their paws at the edge of reason. Red lips and bite marks on tightened throats because a taste of something sweet is what drives us to keep doing what we do. Beer and penetration. Night swimming and vampires from Scotland who butcher the innocent while over in America they make enough porn to outweigh all the angels in heaven. But we are what we are, and the dirtier the better because sin is what helps us in not fitting in. While you put on your stockings and comb your hair, I watch extreme wrestling on YouTube and grow hard at the sight of grown men shredding their skin with razor blades and barbed wire. Never been a fan of my own blood, but the red stuff of someone else never fails to make me twitch. Hulu dancers. Dust particles that land on your nose at 2 am as I remove my clothes while reciting the lyrics to ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayit’sworldwouldfallapart. Stubborn and drunk, I state that those who don’t enjoy the music of the Manic Street Preachers should be burned alive. Laughing at my antics, you spin like a ballerina before throwing yourself down upon the bed. Wet hair and mascara. Biscuit tins and flowers. In St Albans, we travel on buses during morning rain. Reading newspapers and chewing gum we cling to dear life while preparing for the worst. We make out that we’re survivors, but all we are is witnesses, and as hard as I try, I can’t keep pretending it’s ever going to be different.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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