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But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back.

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Hitting
Bottom
Started
Thought
Back

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Our insanity is not that we see people who aren’t there. It’s that we ignore the ones who are.
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Love isn't always magic. Sometimes it's just melting.
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In your arms I forget what the yarn knows of sweaters. I forget how to hold myself together. So if I unfold now like a love letter tell me you'll write back soon. Tell me you'll still come untethered.
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We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways, but you still have to call it a birthday.
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My heart is still a leather jacket I am waiting to give to someone sweet.
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Right now there’s a man on the street outside my door with outstretched hands full of heartbeats no one can hear. He has cheeks like torn sheet music every tear-broken crescendo falling on deaf ears. At his side there’s a boy with eyes like an anthem no one stands up for.
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We all have bullets beneath our skin we pray our lovers won't flinch at when they find.
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Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they're falling like they're falling in love with the ground.
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You can find me on the moon waxing and waning. My heart full of petals, every single one begging 'Love me, love me, love me. Whoever I am. Whoever I become.'
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But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back. There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into your spine.
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and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath the first time his fingers touched the keys the same way a soldier holds his breath the first time his finger clicks the trigger. We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
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If you’re handing out flashlights in the dark, start handing out stars.
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I am living today as someone I had not yet become yesterday and tonight I will borrow only pieces of who I am today to carry with me to tomorrow.
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I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color, but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight. I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies and they were real close to looking like the sunrise, and sometime it takes the most wounded wings the most broken things to notice how strong the breeze is, how precious the flight.
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And we were Banksy on an overpass in New Orleans spray-painting porch lights on the hurricane. We were welcome mats for the un-forgiven. We never sold our windpipes to make a living. We were the letters sent to the wrong address, but opened anyway. We opened anyway.
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This is my body. It is no one's but mine.
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My heart is a parachute that has never opened in time.
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Yes, I like girls Yes, I like boys I like boys who like boys I like girls who wear toys and girls who don't I like girls who don't call themselves girls Crew cuts or curls or that really bad hair phase in between.
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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing
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