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 

Indigenous 

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.