don’t worry ‘bout the fire, gutter, peeling,
feeling, take the long way,
walk the tightrope, sip the water–
you are a Cat, and this is how they skin you.
don’t think about the sunset, seeping, bleeding,
kneeling, read the road sign,
eat the carcass, quick and clever–
you are a Cat, and this is how they skin you.
nine lives and just as many eyes, the thing that
cries across the street
is watching you, so holy water, count the cobbles, look: it wobbles–
you are a Cat, and this is how they skin you.
all the people that you know are sat in tower hotel rooms:
smiling teeth in shiny faces, gripping tight on leather cases,
knuckles turning red from tension, thinking
things they cannot mention–
you are a Cat, and this is how they skin you.
when they catch you, they will kill you;
let them catch you, let them fill you
up with poison, grill you; when they eat you, they will know you,
gagging up their guts–
you are a Cat, and this is how they skin you.
hold the vision, keep it solid, close your eyes and walk
the darkness, learn the footsteps and the bus route,
learn the mourning cry of pigeons, follow streams
to find the ocean where the sea will soothe your wounds–
you are a Cat, and this is how they skin you.
Claire Laurence (she/her) is a 19-year-old English student at the University of Cambridge. When she’s not writing strange and tangled poems and stories, she’s generally to be found reading tarot cards, brewing loose leaf tea with her cat, or watching vintage horror movies. Twitter handle is @clairelnce