A bottle of cheap white wine, and the image of you on a bed of silk linen changing from a woman to a goat to a star being sucked into a supermassive black hole. Just as you’re about to be ripped apart, I’ll come sniffing around, and as your heart turns to mush and your bones become glue, I’ll be your scavenger, feeding off the remains like I so often do. As you kick your legs, I’ll paint your toenails and shave your legs. Maybe shave a little higher, and when it’s all nice and smooth, I’ll grab a biro and draw on you and my patterns will become you and the change you undergo will turn you into something more than what they say is possible. If I put some popcorn in the pan, will you eat it with me and not get cross when I get it all over my chest? Will you lick my chin and bite my fingers hungry for a taste of something more at four in the morning on a settee surrounded by empty bottles and dead cigarettes? They call us charlatans. They call us thieves. They say what we do isn’t natural at all, but who would ever listen to them? Empty vessels make the loudest sound, honey, which is why you should never listen to anyone except me. With my tongue in your ear and fingers rubbing your naughty bits, words don’t mean much of anything and labels become as pointless as lovers, those lovers who offer only chains and regret, and we’re not lovers, are we? No, we’re enemies who like the taste of each other’s lips. When you gulp and shake your hips and my teeth bite you on the nip nips, perhaps I’ll grab a tub of butter and smear us both with goo so we can melt before the fire. Would you like that? Would it give you a kick if we bubbled and hissed before merging while the town outside slipped away like the fading remains of our teenage dreams?
A Journal for Damned Lovers UK
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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