No one makes women like me
with late December lovemaking or on
purpose. Devastation heirlooms &
lamenting at the girl I should have been
stitch me together. I never owned this
body. It belonged to all those men who took
instead of asked. I can only seam rip a
yesterday once or twice. There—I unknot
to make headway, hoping
this is the last one, hoping
I don’t have to know
a tomorrow, too tired
at being wrenched down to
But I try to mend
a fresh face. I start
over & over—too much eye.
No one should see that much.
I am harder than I look.
Jaime Lam is a biracial, queer tea fanatic. Graduated from Knox College, she majored in English and Creative Writing. She tends to lean towards poetry, essays, and the wilder card of urban fantasy. Jaime is from the corn part of Illinois, and still resides there despite deep efforts to not live in Illinois. As a person, she has a habit of laughing ridiculously hard at her own jokes, makes too big of a deal of someone’s birthday, and wants to personally remind you to drink water. Her work can be found in Viewless Wings, Breakbread Lit, Papers Publishing, and Sandhills Literary. Insta: rainjmerain