It’s Okay To Be Soft Still
When I’m alone I roam the train tracks
just to know what it feels like to be in between
unforgivable teeth and think of how we
never kissed. Only the feeling of a faint bee
sting on my swollen mouth. Silent shouts
overpowered by metallic rattles and gravel
crackling the same way it did on the
backyard black top of my old school.
You never believed in God but you believed
in me. Some days that truth is enough, but
have you ever seen a sunset reflected in your own eyes?
Maybe that’s why I admire the way the clouds
contour the sky, the way they say it’s okay to be soft still.
Soft, like thunderbolts that shake the skies, split them
open like a wet mouth, like a skinned knee, like a screen
door. You, a warning to a storm, not quick and
reckless. Always hesitant, living life caught in between
a red and yellow light. Waiting for a sign to burn the wine
and drink the candles. Stand in the sun with me,
and when this storm comes, don’t run.
The Things We Didn’t Say Hidden Amongst The Things We Did
I said, You drive me crazy, woman, and what I meant was I love you.
You said I know, and what you meant was I love you, but I can’t right now.
Or maybe you could but we were on a kitchen timer, each day
passing with a tick, knowing forever was never an option for us.
I still can’t sleep unless I know you’re at home with your door closed.
You said Don’t leave, and what you meant was I love you.
I said I’m sorry, and what I meant was I love you, but it's too late.
Or maybe I was too early, I’m sorry I loved you
too early, too meekly, keeping hands on thighs,
not yours, but mine. Slow is a speed I’m not used to.
Do you remember the first time we kissed?
A late night rush of air from mouth to mouth, heavy and
full of questions and tongue and sleep-stained smiles.
A thinking-of-another-but-wish-I-could-only-feel-you kind of kiss.
A kiss that said I’ve been cold for too long.
Do you remember the last time we kissed?
An early morning peck on the cheek, so light and full of
unrequited hope, a rush out the door, a gone-so-soon.
A wish-this-were-better, wish-I-were-better kind of kiss.
A kiss that said This is all I have to give right now.
All the Places God Hides She tells me I fuck like I have something to prove. Like the summer between her legs depends on what I can grow with these two hands of mine. Divine made human every time she cries, for how many people the trees see but don’t touch, how much life they give away, to receive nothing in return. I can’t tell her the trees are cemeteries for every beautiful idea we’ve ever buried. Every what if and maybe one day sprouts from Earth’s floor to God’s ceiling, stealing sunlight for those of us too futile to breathe on our own. She and I make homes of hotel rooms we’ll never see again, but when she leaves, this burning in my chest swelters, then debilitates beneath my thick and fragile bones. Romanticizing the destination isn’t the same as romanticizing the moment but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend most moments in between the woman she is and the woman she wants to be. The urgency in her heartbeat tells me she feels the same, and for the first time in three years I remember how to pray, saying, I’m not God. But I’m here. Teach me how to grow.
Born and raised in Wichita, Kansas, Lindsey J. Medina graduated from Kansas State University with a Bachelor’s Degree in English and Creative Writing and simultaneously earned a commission as an officer in the U.S. Air Force. Currently, she is stationed in Japan.