January 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

At the perfect intersection of
Black steel and white skin
So otherworldly
I pick
Years old, seasoned, perhaps
Only scar tissue now and a sweet
Thoroughfare natural as time
I pick
It was all so exciting, brash
Sullying purity with youth’s
Callous courage, blood a badge
I pick
The steel holds open that
Which was closed before, lustfully
Thrusting through living flesh
I pick
This hole should be healed
I pick
It’s a half wound in a half world
I pick
Raw thrills rip me present
And I pick.

Nicole Best



January 21, 2014 § Leave a comment

I think there’s a kind of romance in suicide
Because after
Everyone says sorts of things like
“She was such a beautiful girl”
Because she never gave age a chance to embitter her, bend and twist her like a sullen tree
“She was so sweet, what a lovely nature”
Because she never gave the world a chance to send flickering threads of bile and misery and anger and ugliness through her untainted flesh
“She had so much potential, she could’ve achieved so much”
Because she left all that lovely potential there behind her, seeded in the minds of other people, safe from reality’s callous shock
Because when you die old and unfulfilled, nobody laments the potential you once had – squandered and shamed – but when you die young and beautiful, it’s all they ever talk about
And you never have to prove that it’s there.

Nicole Best


January 17, 2014 § Leave a comment

Today the words lie inside inexpressable, cavernous red space
The sun shines outside, tints the darkness but cannot penetrate
They fester in the still depths, swilling and scraping with every neurotic movement
And this bubbling word-mess taints the world, sliding over my eyes, blocking my throat like acrid vomit
I cannot see an end
The sun shines
I cannot feel it.

Nicole Best

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