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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.

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
Loneliness
Bottom
Started
Thought
Bruise
Back
Bruises
Like
Spine
Hitting
Kicks

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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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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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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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she's wondering how many women are walking around this world feeling the tingling of their amputated wings remembering what it was to fly to sing
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If a tree fell in the forest, and you were the only one there to hear it if its fall to the ground didn’t make a sound, would you panic in fear that you didn’t exist, or would you bask in the bliss of your nothingness?
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Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery.
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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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You are not weak just because your heart feels so empty.
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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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I could never trust anyone who's well adjusted to a sick society.
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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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This is my body. It is no one's but mine.
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I don't believe we're hateful. I think mostly we're just asleep, but the math adds up the same.
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I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.
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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 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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We all have bullets beneath our skin we pray our lovers won't flinch at when they find.
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Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
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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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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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