The heavens are so full of smoke, I can hear the stars playing tag whenever I’m flying home.
What if the weather keeps changing, and we don’t?
I want to touch the sleeve of the river.
I want to un-dam my bloodstream.
I want to make good time.
I don’t know what makes us human more than our crimes, and that just breaks my heart.
The last time I wanted to kill myself, my lover said she thought I’d picked up the knife to kill her instead.
I don’t want to write that down, but I don’t want to keep it in my head.
There have been whole years where I have been nothing but mean.
I wanna leave behind my shame, cut all my words from a shiny magazine, sleep like a baby, so someone will hear me when I cry, be nothing but honest, and say nothing but, ‘It hurts, it hurts.’
My bare-knuckled heart road has hit the road and left ever single love I have ever known, so what do all these poems mean?
The war goes on, y’all.
I write it down, and it’s just as tall.
The war goes on, and I am small as a kid being pushed inside a locker.
Good God, I want to be big.
Big enough to stop editing the ugly out of my bio, to empty every bullet from the chamber of my heart, to fill it with the hoodie of a boy.
What poem will walk him home?
What radio tower of light?
What redemption will dull the blade, melt it down to mirror, give us back to God, un-haunt the house of the mother choosing the color of the casket?
Rinse out the mouth of anyone who would still call it a white flag?
Tonight, don’t tell me you don’t understand the kids who cut themselves to save their lives,
who can’t bare to not be bleeding, when everything else is. — Andrea Gibson, July 13, 2013 (via craezie)
Insists hope lace its fucking boots.
Always calls out the misogynist, racist, homophobic joke refuses to be a welcome mat where hate wipes its feet. — Andrea Gibson “Etiquette Leash”
To the terrible manners of truth — Andrea Gibson, “Etiquette Leash”
It’s not that I think I am your type I think I’m the exact font you have been searching for your entire life I can tell by the way your fingers hover above the A key That’s me: Awkward So what?
I’ve been loving you eleven years
Eleven years standing outside your window
Throw down your hair
I’m talking about the hair you pulled from the drain when you were cleaning your tub
I want everything
You have ever tried to wash away
The first time you were teased in junior high
The last time you blushed from a compliment
Every fever that is not yet broken
It is true, I have never made a love potion that hasn’t blow up,
But your mouth is the sexist beaker
Bend me over your periodic table
Then try to tell me we don’t have chemistry
I am poly
As in polygraph machine
As in I can tell you are lying when you tell me you don’t want me
In a cheerleading outfit spelling only your name with pompoms
I will faithfully put anything on for you
Name the time period
Jazz age? I’ll wear a pocket watch beneath my flapper dress while fist fighting Hemingway for a seat beside you at the bullfight
I’ll grab your hand and we’ll run straight for the bull
What is love if it’s not running straight for the bull?
Then carrying him into an animal sanctuary in Massachusetts
Where he’ll forever be best friends with a pig named George
Love is a downpour of shelter
I want to wrap you in blankets until you are so dry you’re wet
I want to come clean in our dirtiest bed
Fuck playing the field
Do you have any idea how wild I could grow in the flowerpot beside your desk?
Baby, all of your petals are welcome here
In every ounce of your drought I will never ask you to weed your fear
When I say I want all of you I mean that chair jammed under the doorknob
I am a master at holding my ear to the wall and knowing when the coast is clear
The coast is most clear when there are lovers making love in the lighthouse
Telling one truth is a years worth of lamp oil
I will tell you the truth until every ship has come home to harbor
I will tuck you in every night beneath the quilt of sails
I will hire a stubborn mechanic
Someone willing to lay on his back beneath a ton of steel
Have him whisper to every valve of your heavy heart
Nothing can be fixed
Everything can be healed
That’s why my gravel throat keeps calling through this canyon
That’s why I keep lighting this torch after so many years
I promise to be so careful with the bird’s nest in the chimney
Give me one night
I have plenty of patience to wait
But what I know of eventually is that it rarely arrives without an escort of spill your guts
You can have all of my pipe organs
You can make an opera of my throat
You told me years ago I should start writing the poems I am terrified to write
Well here you go
It’s not that I’m not terrified
You’re going to break my heart in half
But when you do I want to have written your name as my emergency contact
I want God to call you and say if the door frame that saves you from the earthquake is part of love’s ribcage
Then the falling roof of your fear is love’s lung pulling you closer towards the truce
That final truce where even your terror becomes an open field
Love, this is the place where the wounded started calling the wounds on their knees ‘strawberries’
I will meet you by the maple tree
That will be my jacket thrown across the mud puddle
Waiting to dry your pretty feet “
Your dark side might still be searching for its stars but the acoustics are still amazing in our meteor showers.
The light will never be out of your league.
You were the first one picked for your own team.
Our underdog hearts are winning this game even when we are doing it all wrong,
even when we are falling apart. — Andrea Gibson “Truce”