Old Wounds by Laurel Galford (Massachusetts, 29)

I pick at the wound of you
without a second thought
just an impulse to hurt,
an itch I will scratch until bloody.

Hidden under the shame of night
I stalk your Instagram
checking to see how much
you still infect me,

examine my absence
like a reverse archaeologist,
question if the meal
tasted better without me,

            the ocean waves more scenic,

                            your life better.

In the middle of the longing
to know who you are,
I remember pieces
of who you were,

moments you argued with
my feminist views,
ones it appears
you now share,

all the time spent counting stains
in the carpet of the dining hall,
delaying the dam forming
behind my eyes during dinner.

I remember how the party was always
more important than your friend
who was so drunk-sick,
and me, who took care of her.

More than once you chose to get high
with the other girl that loved you,

                while I waited
                                 for a text back,

wasted another evening
measuring how much vodka
it would take to swallow
my need for you,

watched my friends
watch me
destroy myself.

And much like our relationship
I get nothing from this,
exit your profile quietly
tracing the soft scar of you

and I wonder
if you ever think
about me too.




Laurel Galford (she/her) is a queer social worker, aspiring writer, and likely in the middle of reading three books at one time. She has participated in online writing workshops with Andrea Gibson, Megan Falley, and Olivia Gatwood, poets that greatly inspire her. Her work has been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Perfumed Pages, and Tiny Wren Lit. When not writing, Laurel can be found rock climbing, talking about astrology or adding more books to the pile next to her bed.