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"I see friends start to throw up on me; offer their heads on platters; their genitals as currency for redemption; their reality as barter for my brains."

by Kimberly Nichols


118 fucking degrees.


I am scared.

Everything is happening so fast.

Without any solid intentions, things spark despite my will.

The moment my collection of short stories hits press, my computer dies.

Death to a dear fried.

It gives me warning.

A few sputters here when I try to write old friends who have lost their meaning.

A few coughs here when I work on writing for people who don't deserve my attention.

A few blackouts when the pornographers come knocking down on my doorstep wanting my pixels in exchange for their plastic.

And then it happens.


It is surprisingly zen.
I discover I need nothing.

Suddenly, I can only talk to those people whose address I have memorized. I can tell people whom I don't care for that I have lost all way to contact them.

I can weed through acquaintances and purify my circle.

I can throw away all the debris of lust, the ash of idle chat, the billions of lines of me throughout the past decade.

I have nothing but a mirror.

I look in.

I look outward.

My propensity for sexual desire arises.

My moods go up and down.

I discover who really loves me.

I discover who really can't stand me.

I become victim to the art of character assassination.

I see friends start to throw up on me; offer their heads on platters; their genitals as currency for redemption; their reality as barter for my brains.

I want to drive home every afternoon at two, drink lots of wine and sleep till evening.

But chaotic situations are suicide to the psyche.

I buy a new computer and dive back in.

No matter how much you are drawn in.

You must go once you feel the first burn of fire.

Some singe.

Some fly.

This time will be better.

I prefer my clouds white, absent of pain.

9 PM…middle of Summer.


Kimberly Nichols is a freelance writer/artist/burgundy spaghetti strapped Raggedy Anne in fishnets, living in the California desert. She attributes lust, hedonism, the electromagnetic field and white light as pure motivation in her drive towards omniscience. When she isn't glued to her computer screen she can be found dancing barefoot at drum circles, skinny dipping in the ocean, scouring the desert for cactus skeletons to pose people upon or gathering a good blistering drunk with fine friends and sangria. Her psychological non-fiction appears frequently in the alternative rag Desert Post Weekly. She has been published in Alternative Arts and Literature, Small Spiral Notebook and Feminista and is currently at work on a collage series called Girls of the hundred Proof Bordello Define Desire. Let her write on your back with thorns, wine or iodine and she'll paste you on a rusty nail in one of her paintings.

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