You and Galen



I coughed up one of your hairs

Into my own lover’s mouth


Detached a bed frame and rearranged 

Wooden slats

Into the shape of the state where we met


And blood rushing away from my head 

Brings new meaning to getting caught red-handed 


Another anxiety-stricken kid curled into a cardboard box 


In an attempt to be loved 


By an unhealthy love that grows like weeds


But I'm not made of weeds 

I'm made of grass 

That grows 


To the places

All your enemies call home.


Ingrid J. Enero is an aspiring writer and performance artist living in Portsmouth, VA. She enjoys writing about her struggles with mental illness and alcoholism and every now and then writes short stories about cannabalism.