Author S. K. Nicholas

  When I come crawling back with blood on my fingers, will you still want to see me? When you read the words that flow from my mind at 2 am when everyone else is gone, will you still want to take me in your arms? We could be together, but these feelings just won’t… Read more

  Colt 45. Blonde Mona Lisa. A bottle of Australian white to help ease the passage from one state to the next. From painter to lover, lover to writer. Girl. Lizard. Secreter. You roll a smoke and say you’re fine but how can you be fine when your man gets bored of what you’ve got to… Read more

  She’s a great kisser, but these blisters on my feet won’t pop themselves. She thinks it’s disgusting, but as I take the needle in hand and pass it back and forth through the flame of my lighter, the relief that washes over me as they burst is almost immeasurable. The way the juice flows… Read more

  The grey days and missing days where dead relatives and unchained lovers drift away without you even realising. The dirty crowd and how it thinks of itself as a collective shining light, and not the mass of crap and regurgitated dreams it really is. No beauty, and no success, just this lump of gristle that… Read more

They keep tip-toeing in slow motion and even though it’s day there’s no sun only the moon and even though they move so quietly I can hear their feet crashing down like thunder. Red lips. Red gums. And how I’ve hushed those gums and how I’ve skirted the edge and peered at their naked bodies… Read more

  Ten thousand tonnes of clouds and the image of a virgin fiddling with razor blades while soaking in a hot bath. Her body is unknown, untouched. Those breasts of hers, those ridges of flesh where the fingers of no man have ever teased. They speak to me of many great things, but words only… Read more

  They write poetry you wouldn’t even wipe your arse with. They spew out these passages on love and identity as if they actually meant something, but their problem is they don’t know shit because they’re not alive. They exist, but that’s about it. They’re so comfortable within their skin and the world around them.… Read more

    Put the Christmas tree up earlier. It was in a box under the stairs, and now it’s looking spunky with three thousand fairy lights on it and a shit load of golden tinsel and handcrafted ornaments I bought in a garden centre with pocket money back when I was a kid. Drinking a… Read more

  Dreams of being a werewolf. Daydreams where she lifts her legs high above her head and squirts out her desires so they shower my masturbating hands and bouncing balls. When I stir I know I’m being crude and I know her image deserves far better but there’s no use in denying these urges that… Read more

  Is she a solar flare? Is she a mirage in this desert of words and work and words and work and grey days and boring days and sleeping days and beer days mixed with headaches and bellyaches and toothache and thinning blood? Does a nosebleed tell me a transformation is taking place? Does a… Read more