Author S. K. Nicholas

One street after the other skipping through pools of light and pools of oil that glisten as her sex flickers in and out of existence. There’s electricity that guides me forwards. There’s neon on my tongue that tickles what’s within. In the shadows, there’s enough history to bring on enough nausea to last a month of Sundays. This bile in my stomach, it’s brought on by too many carbonated drinks and the stress of being alive. I told this to a doctor once, and he said he could only help me with the drinks side of things, but not life. There are row after row of empty cars that silently watch me as I walk by with my head down and hands clenched. In the shop fronts where a younger version of me once looked at his reflection aghast at the outbreak of spots on his face, the man that now looks back is a shadow and a portal and a question mark all rolled into one. Her sex, it makes my fingertips tingle. It sends vibrations into my bones that spell out messages only the two of us would even begin to understand. At the theatre in the park, they’re showing An American Werewolf in London. It’s one of my favourite films. Transformation. Changing. These are two of my favourite things. Down alleyways, I walk hearing others that never appear. Through parking lots and cemeteries, I move unseen as the animals watch from afar, curious as to the stranger that shifts before their animal eyes. When I shed this skin and dance, they come out and circle me. When the layers begin to dissolve and what’s left resembles neither today, tomorrow or yesterday, they join me on a journey to a place no one else has been. Under the eye of the moon and a thousand silent birds, the passage of time that follows is one that takes me everywhere and nowhere. It reeks of beer and cigarettes and shame and desperation and the lingering scent of her perfume. It pierces my flesh and draws blood that resembles those pools of oil that call to me from where they reside far behind in the centre of town. This is a comeback, and this is war. This is passion where once there was only disdain. As a crow lands upon my shoulder and a fox darts in and around my feet, there are no exits but me. There are no reasons save for the one that clings to my blood-red lips that look the same as they did back when my naked form stalked the foot of her bed.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com