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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
Hiding
Awkwardly
Holes
Fist
Photograph
Fists
Wall
Shaped
Room
Chest
Rooms
Chests
Everyone
Photographs
Living
Placed

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Yesterday i carved your name into the surface of an ice cube then held it against my chest til it melted into my aching pores today i cried so hard the neighbors knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to borrow some sugar.
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I could never trust anyone who's well adjusted to a sick society.
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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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But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back.
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Let me also say I wanna make you sandwhiches, And soup, And peanut butter cookies, Though, the truth is peanutbutter is actually really bad for you 'cause they grow peanuts in old cotton fields to clean the toxins out of the soil, But hey, you like peanutbutter and I like you!
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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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You never wish on shooting stars. You wish on the ones that have the courage to shine where they are.
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Know you belong here. You belong here and everything you feel is okay.
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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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Last night I saw your ghost pedalling a bicycle with a basket towards a moon as full as my heavy head and I wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket like ET with my glowing heart glowing right through my chest and my glowing finger pointing in the direction of our home.
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You can have a cold war with yourself, even in the summertime
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I'm not lookin' for someone who can save me. Life rafts might keep you afloat but they rarely get you anywhere and I've got places I wanna go. So break me in two, peel back my rib cage and cover every page of my heart with love poems you will burn someday.
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Love isn't always magic. Sometimes it's just melting.
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My heart is a parachute that has never opened in time.
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You have a heart of gold and I am kneeling in your bloodstream panning for the only thing that has ever felt like home.
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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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Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.
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The holy have done more damage to this world than the devil ever could.
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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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Say this is what the pain made of you: an open, open, open road, an avalanche of feel it all.
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