“Every un-opened voice box is a closed casket with a flag on top.
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