Suffragette City full of glue sniffers and cheerleaders that dance on pavillions overlooking crowds of addicts and clones and clones and addicts and those women you get who claim to be vulnerable but are really black widows. Pouting and doe-eyed they mesmerise and pull you in and kiss your lips and fill you with wonder but you know they’ll suck you dry and the worst part is you let them do it because you like it that way. They feed you cream cakes and dish out handjobs like sweets and with every blissful kiss they get you right where they want, and even though it hurts later on, right now it’s a pretty sight. So yeah, cream cakes full of jam that dribbles from your mouth that they lick away with their wicked tongues while rubbing your head and pushing you deep into their bosom. They’re full of yeahs, and they’re full of stars, and with each breath, they levitate inches above the ground so radiant and excited by a life that will surely let them down. They are cats and spectres and loveless lovers in constant need of affection, but I need my space because love means chains and a look of innocence leads only to disdain so let me wander and let me be. Smother like a mother but give me light years to roam. It’s not that you don’t mean anything to me, it’s just that I don’t want to be the one that has to make you happy because my needs will always see me drift away. Alleyways that stink of stale piss and burnt out cars in gardens that aren’t gardens. Conversation in phone booths in the eye of the storm drunk and hungry and miserable and tired from the games that are played. Streets that lead to more streets and buildings that contain the terrible truths of our boring lives of which we try so hard to disguise, but I’ve always been drawn to the boring much the same as I’ve been drawn to those who are sad because it’s the real who feel and the weak that speak words worth listening to.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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