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Everyone’s chest is a living room wall with awkwardly placed photographs hiding fist-shaped holes.

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Rooms
Chests
Everyone
Photographs
Living
Placed
Hiding
Awkwardly
Holes
Fist
Photograph
Fists
Wall
Shaped
Room
Chest

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We are all instruments pulling the bows across our own lungs. Windmills, still startling in every storm. Have you ever seen a newborn blinking at the light? I wanna do that every day. I wanna know what the kite called itself when it got away, when it escaped into the night.
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Cause I might be naked and lonely Shaking branches for bones But I'm still time zones away From who I was the day before we met You were the first mile Where my heart broke a sweat And I wish you were here I wish you'd never left But mostly I wish you well I wish you my very very best.
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Safety isn't always safe. You can find one on every gun.
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I have always been comfortable weathering the storm. I’d like to get more comfortable weathering the sunny day.
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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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Every lover is a storm chaser. Every good heart has lost its roof.
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Love is like sunshine. Sometimes you have to get burned to know you were there. I want to know that I'm here.
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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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Hey, are you a boy or a — never mind, can I have a push on the swing?” And some day, y’all, when we grow up, it’s all gonna be that simple.
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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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My heart is a parachute that has never opened in time.
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The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
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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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You can stand on the cliff of my heart and shout nothing but ‘ugly’ through me. I promise all I will echo back is ‘Beauty, beauty, you have always been beauty
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How many wars will it take us to learn that only the dead return?
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We're boxed in and labeled before we're ever able to speak who we believe we are or who we dream we'll become.
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You panic button collector. You clock of beautiful ticks. You run out the door if you need to. You flock to the front row of your own class. You feather everything until you know you can always, always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here. You belong here and everything you feel is okay. Everything you feel is okay.
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Do you think anger is a sincere emotion or the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain?
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My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.
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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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