Terms of Rent

I thought I was moving away
from loneliness, but I was merely
expanding its reach. I don’t bother
to flush during the day. I swear

I’ve only drunk so far
on single-digit afternoons. I don’t,
if at all possible, like to leave
the house, but I bus to burbs

for the supermarkets and the fresh
faces who’ve never seen me
sweat before over what’s buried
in my basket. I’ve devised at least three

distinct methods for disposing
of bottles. My pink heart bubbles
in bed. One knee is showing signs
of stress. My fingers hold less

and less blood. My sides spring
like perfect dough. I long for concrete
grief, a death to test my skull on.
Last night there was a bonfire
behind the hedges. Smoking
and crackling, I watched it, thinking
of all the ways I never learned
for how to get a fire going.


J Clayton holds an MPhil in English from the University of Bristol and currently lives in London. His writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in, among other places, CagibiAntiphon, and Gigantic Sequins.

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close