Size / / /


Insert here:

a knife between the fifth

rib and the sixth, below the lung,

beneath the diaphragm

near where the heart

sags, burdened

with a love it has no need for,

and a hate it wants no space for,

memory, finger-marking

the things you’ve learned

and what he taught.


Better in than out,


it hurts to unbutton

his name from

your skin, undo the map

his hands made of

your breasts, unfold him

from your chest

like he was a sheaf

of love poems

and lay

your grief to rest.


If you forget everything else,

remember this:

cut deep




he was never worth


By day, Cassandra Khaw is a reporter for The Verge. By night, she juggles work on a companion novel for edutainment title Codemancer, and an IF game about money laundering and hungry ghosts. She is convinced her blood is now entirely made of coffee.
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