My hands are crisscrossed with scars from my cat’s claws, and I’ve spent all my poetry in making her beast eyes mean something. They say, ‘no matter how much you feed the wolf, it keep looking back towards the forest’. Lost cats are like lost chances and failed exams – the panic of missing a step, and falling down, down, down, just like in that one movie I saw when I was seven – the knowledge that this is a calamity waiting to happen. For now, we tuck into each other, a feline and a girl. One vibrating with contentment, the other just dying to change places.
The nights always get away from me. I look at the broken digital clock I stole from someone, and it could be saying 8.10 or 3.49. I go with whichever possibility makes my stomach swoop with guilt. That’s usually how I know the right answer to everything – the certainty of having missed it, again.