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

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I'm good at loving books. I'm good at loving soft bed sheets. I'm good at loving coffees and teas. I am good at loving things that can't love me back, that don't have the power to leave. And maybe, that's why I love them.
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Touch me ‘til my ribs become piano keys, ‘til there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungs.
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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 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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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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A doctor once told me I feel too much. I said, so does god. that’s why you can see the grand canyon from the moon.
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That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.
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Love isn't always magic. Sometimes it's just melting.
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You are not weak just because your heart feels so empty.
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I intend to leave this life so shattered there's gonna have to be a thousand separate heavens for all of my flying parts
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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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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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My heart is still a leather jacket I am waiting to give to someone sweet.
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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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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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This is my body. It is no one's but mine.
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Every lover is a storm chaser. Every good heart has lost its roof.
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If you ever reach enlightenment. will you remember how to laugh?
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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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Do you know they found land mines in woman's souls.
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