No lousy poets, and no talk about love, either. No mention of the future or empowerment, just coffee and toast and the emptiness of the morning after the night before. Forget romance, all I want is for you to cradle my bones and keep me safe for a while. Wrap me up in black cotton wool and lay my head down on the pillow because anything and everything is just too much for me to bear. Turn off the lights, draw the curtains, and look closer. Look within. No mouths and closed mouths. Photographs of the sea and the image of you smiling for my camera with the ocean behind you mirroring the colour of your eyes. Twitching my nose, here comes the taste of bread rolls and jacket potatoes while thinking about death and how what I run from is what I seek above all else. Slow motion. Slow hands. A dance like any other. The sea is the womb. It sings my name wishing so much for me to return and to become at one with all things. Sat on the toilet, I look out the window and hear birdsong. The little bastards. Just flying around not feeling or thinking a thing. Why couldn’t I have been like them? Why couldn’t I have been born a slug or some kind of bacteria? I know, I know, the struggle is a beautiful one, but still, living is a problem I could do without. Squeezing out a turd, the euphoria is overwhelming, but it’s short-lived. Day makes way for night. Flashing lights become shadows. A mouthful of smoke is snatched away by some unseen force and taken through the gap at the foot of the door. There are voices coming from the radiator. They tell me I’m fucked. Like I don’t already know. As naked as I was born, my flesh is of no use to me. It’s not what I want at all. Nor is this mind of mine. Give me the flame of a candle. Let me become the flame. Let me dance free of form and without the shame of my human shape.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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