I knead my collarbone as he tosses clothes into a microwave box. Head down, he says he's all grown-up now. My tongue is heavy as a stone.
Crushed cans and curry tins lay scattered like dead soldiers. My footsteps leave trenches in the mold. A Pat Benatar tape plays in the kitchen and I make our gashes mirror reflections while she shudders. Rust or blood, what’s the difference anymore? Sunrays cauterize the cobblestone street like a scab. Breathe, exhale. Gummy fingertips pressed to my eyelids, London morning's come again.
Nik Korpon is from Baltimore, MD. His work has appeared in 3:AM, Out of the Gutter, and Cause and Effect, as well as some other upcoming stuff. He is a Fiction Editor for ROTTEN LEAVES Magazine, a contributor to the Outsider Writers Collective and co-hosts LAST SUNDAY, LAST RITES, a monthly reading series in Baltimore. Read more at http://www.nikkorpon.com/.