You. Her. She. The bottle and a banshee and a priest. A will-o’-the-wisp and the gleam of painted lips all puckered up and ready for the kiss. No poetry and then a little poetry. No women and then your image that comes sauntering into view behind the back of my blacked-out eyes. In schools, they preach hide the soul, and then work comes along and drills it in a little deeper. But art liberates, and good art is the answer to all that ails us. So maybe take me by the hand and walk these streets with me until we can’t feel our feet, yeah? Maybe if you want you’ll come along with me on a journey someplace strange until we can’t remember who we were to begin with, yeah? Maybe you’ll let me want you, and the more my heart burns as a result, the more you’ll see that these visons I preach are as real as it gets. I ain’t proper and I ain’t well, and this mouth is far too quiet for its own good, but in my bones, there’s darkness and more darkness and this darkness comes as easy as the sleep of reason the rest of them try so hard to deny. There are butterflies mixed with sleeping pills and your trimmed pubic hair I run my tongue over even though the pain itches me something rotten. There’s dust on your windowsill and coffee in your belly and wonder smeared all over your pretty little chin of which I bite and chew until you beg me to stop. Chrysalis and fire. June bloom and fairground highs and the smell of cotton candy mixed with hotdogs as lovers stand on the brink. That first kiss. That first touch when fingers long to creep. Those brown eyes and autumn hearts- the two things I seek more than anything. But only God can make a tree, so who I am? My reflection and your reflection, so many reflections and all these reflections that keep on reflecting, oh, how I want them now. So many obsessions and afflictions and addictions and sensations and I wanna feel them all. Let me mirror you and then mirror me back until we’re mirrored through and through. Let these reflections keep on reflecting until we screech and howl and our words dissolve and what’s left is but a reflection that keeps on reflecting, over and over again.
[S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available on Amazon. Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.]