Graham By Jeanann Verlee

Three years.
A flat-black
punk-rock
love-mobile
Dodge Dart.
Tattoos and
blue hair—
your
nicotine taste
made me high.
We moved in a
slow-mo frame
of hardcore and
hallucination.
Smirnoff
was our rummy
partner.
On special
occasions,
Southern Comfort.
And it was fun.
Until the
psych ward
at Porter
Memorial—
slashed wrists
and liver
rot. After
two years
of detox
and Hide-
the-Booze,
I quit.
You didn’t.
And I’m sorry
it was
Christmas
but I had
to go.

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