Severing by Jaime Lam I watched her cut watermelon in the kitchen the way mothers just do. These days, I drown the daughter you had under purpled-blackish dye and newborn secrets to distance. Lately, I wake to my eyes feeling wrung despite dry. I dip my fingers into daring to dream of a woman who would have loved teaching me how to drive. What not to love in a man. The warning signs of when to take a breath and retreat back into her bridging arms. You make me mourn, whittling misery into an instrument that coddles before biting down my sounds. Some days are so staccato. I romanticize edges—razorblades, matchboxes, shell casings—bouquet apologies escalating through teeth. Too deafening for me to exist but that is where I found a silhouette of understanding: to mutilate is to suffer a love like yours.
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Jaime Lam is a biracial, queer woman who is quietly from the corn part of Illinois, currently fawning over the moss in Savannah, Georgia. She graduated from Knox College with a degree in English as well as Creative Writing, attempting to conquer three genres: creative nonfiction, poetry, and urban fantasy. On one hand, she writes trauma with a flourish in an attempt to beautify the ugly. On the other, she plays in witches, werewolves, and ghosts. In general, she wishes everyone to drink water, breathe, and eat chocolate if you can.