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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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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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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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I'm never gonna wait that extra twenty minutes to text you back and I'm never gonna play hard to get when I know your life has been hard enough already.
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Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don't you dare let go of my hand!
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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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...And for every day you paint the war, take a week and paint the beauty, the color, the shape of the landscape you’re marching towards. Everyone knows what you’re against show them what you’re for.
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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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The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
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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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I write because it is while I'm writing that I feel most connected to why we're here. I write because silence is a heavy weight to carry. I write to remember. I write to heal. I write to let the air in. I write as a practice of listening.
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If you’re handing out flashlights in the dark, start handing out stars.
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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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If you ever reach enlightenment. will you remember how to laugh?
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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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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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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back.
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Sometimes the break in your heart is like the hole in the flute. Sometimes it’s the place where the music comes through.
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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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