Feather gashes cut the deepest because I can’t figure out their motives;
this game of Russian roulette we play will kill me because you always load six cartridges.
I think there is a wolf cub lost in this city, lost from his pack.
My wrappers fall from my hands, transparent with escape,
whilst my open window fogs up, unsure how to reflect anymore—
my world, your black hole.
Time sweats panic and wolf cub howls, asking the moon which way home is.
A starling calls and receives no answer; I can’t find my phone.
The 2am crackle warns me not to cry.
Are you able to lock our doors? Leave the big light on when you leave.
Ava Patel has recently graduated from the University of Warwick with a First in an MA in Writing. She has had some small successes being published in a webzine (the Runcible Spoon) and a magazine (South Bank Poetry).