You and Galen
I coughed up one of your hairs
Into my own lover’s mouth
Detached a bed frame and rearranged
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
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.