The Naked Rot
Illustration by Sarah Delli Colli
by Frank Lasocki
It came clawing at my door one morning
clicking and rattling its yellow tongue
sprung up from the warm belly of August,
a warped eye against my peephole.
I told myself I could do without supermarkets
without the gas station, the laundromat
but nineteen days of cowering in dirty underwear
drove my fingers to the doorknob –
a lick and a nuzzle
and I was done for.
Dropped dead on my own welcome mat
jaw open, salivating onto capital L.
A second me rose up swiftly
taking over my phone, my family,
my furnished, bright seventh-floor apartment
sinking new teeth into my toothpaste.
A full-blooded imposter with a heavy stride
hauling back groceries on Tuesday nights,
indulging in the sweet rush of cigarettes
and cold drops of white milk,
my body a sad sack of marbles
shoved aside by a hard, familiar foot.
Shir Ariya studies Screenwriting at London Film School. She spends her free time writing, drawing and consuming as much art as possible.