Lin Nov 6

A doctor isn’t allowed to tell
a dying patient’s family
that they’re going to live.

When I’m lonely
I tell myself
someone great
is going to come along.
I’ll meet him
sigh with relief
and every tear, ache, void,
will instantly make sense.

But why?

Why was I taught by society to believe
I deserve a happy for every hurt?
To assume every sad moment
has a happy ending?
When this concept is the nature of stories
not reality.

A doctor isn’t allowed to tell
a dying patient’s family
that they’re going to live
because it might not be true.

I can’t tell myself
I’ll find someone.
I’ll be happy.

Because it might not be true.

Lin Oct 4

Finding a lover is effortless
for some people.
They only want a few things:
Someone attractive, kind,
funny or rich.

What I want,
what I desire,
is so much more.

An intelligent mind
that wakes up thoughts in me
I didn't realize were hibernating.

I want to converse, analyze and debate
without being conscious of
the sun rising and falling
between our words.

I want to make a witty remark
at a coffee shop
so he can reply sarcastically
just for me to jab back immediately
and him to comeback back playfully
until we're both laughing
stomach shaking
spit flying
the whole store staring
and we leave
without coffee

I want our hands to stitch together perfectly
like two lost puzzle pieces;
one found under the couch cushion
one found in a junk drawer
the rest of the puzzle already thrown
away but
these two pieces remain
and they fit

I want to fall in love together
then together fall in love with
art, museums, songs, poems
T.V shows, radio jingles,
greek food, backroads,
our mutual hatred for pop culture,
doing the dishes (as long as he washes and I dry)
wrong turns, piled up laundry, life.
Just fall in love with life.

I want to hurt with him
I want to save the world with him
I want to meet, see, understand
and experience all that is foreign
with him.

I feel that it will only take us meeting
and it'll only be history and happiness from then on.

It's just a matter of if a love like that could ever be
and if a love like that could ever be for me.

Lin Oct 4

it's a lazy morning

natural light invades
through the curtain cracks
the warmth outside
seeps through the walls
every ray of sun kisses
every particle of earth
there's a crisp salt breeze
i watch the ocean dance
and it rocks my mind
into a trance
a trance so deep
i suddenly have
the most absurd thought

maybe

i am okay

Lin May 29

Please,

for the love of God.

Don’t be attractive.
But don’t be unattractive either.
Be a male.
(Why are female Gynos always the worst?!)
But not a straight man who is secretly checking me out.
But also not a gay man who is secretly disgusted by me.

Don’t look so excited to see me when I come in for an appointment.
But when I walk in the door
don’t furrow your eyebrows while whispering
to your secretary through a shield you’ve just created
with my vagina-history-paperwork.

After decades of Gynecology practice
have we yet to find an alternative to cold, hard, metal utensils?!

Instead of you asking, wouldn’t a red line of tape be a better map
than your suddenly creepy voice
asking the most vulnerable part of me
to scoot "closer, closer, a liiiiiiitle bit closer, right there"
to your face.

Also, please provide larger cups for the urine sample.
PSA: OURS DOESN'T WORK LIKE YOURS!
It’s not a faucet that runs a straight steady stream.
It’s more like a water hose...
that the dog bit into.

And last, but definitely not least.

Oh God please,

Don’t tell me on my way out
“I look forward to seeing you at your next appointment!”

Because I do not
and I will not
EVER
feel the same.

Lin May 14

The past will fade.
Every mistake the magician’s paper,
time the lighter.
You will get past the pain.

Our lives are a pencil drawing.
The impacts are dark lead
but the artist or time or you
will shade and fade
them all away to smooth grey.

The past is a story we tell ourselves.
Some nights it will feel like a horror story
but do not let this fade you.
Put down the blade you’re holding
to your own paper wrist.

No. Your past will not erase.
But the past will fade.

Lin May 9

My Professor told me to leave his class room.
I lifted my bowed head
“Huh?”

"Leave my classroom",
he said.
“I don’t tolerate
tweeting, texting,
snapping, sexting,
in my lectures.
So if you’re going to be on your phone
be on your phone elsewhere.”

I didn’t have the energy to rebuttal
“Professor Hughes, I wasn’t looking at my phone.”
I simply did as I was asked
and left.

Funny how my head was bowed
because I was looking down
at the scars I carved into my wrists
this morning
laying in bed
eyes opened
body still
demons anchoring my chest
feeling pressed into my mattress
mumbling through the paralysis
“I have to go to class today
I can’t skip again”
“But your bed is so warm
and you’re a piece of shit anyway”
my depression taunted
“If you would have just swallowed that bottle of pills
last night like I told you
we wouldn’t be in this mess”

As I’m walking back to my dorm,
the parallel of last night
and this morning
smacks me like a wooden bat to the back:
Life is like a college class;
you don’t always want to be a part of it,
yet alone participate.
Sometimes just showing up
is all you can muster up that day.
And you might do something or even nothing
and someone who doesn’t like that something or nothing
will come up to you and say,
why don’t you just leave?

And you may not have the energy to disagree.

Lin Apr 21

"What a waste of a face."
A waste
because of my waist.

My waist has been wasted
because of the space my waist
takes up.
I am "a waste of space".

The beauty of my features penetrate
but the reality of my body disfigurates
what that man thought I should be.

But,


I am not a waste.

I am not a waist.

By Lindsay Johnson
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