handle with care

Born and raised in Toronto. Hamilton based. Artist type. Ramblings of an insomniac.

[brightlightsloudnoises]

“my heart aches forever (and it aches for you)” blln

IG: @ brightlights.loudnoises

The Sun Is Kind To You on Amazon

[weltenwellen]

Hanif Abdurraqib, "Glamor on the West Streets / Silver Over Everything"

[loveridden1999]

just being alive is heavy tonight, but we have enough dead friends. come over...

[angelscarnage]

“sorry I can’t come, I saw myself in the mirror and now I’m having a breakdown”

[willywonka-suicidecamps]

Mood af

[the-dose-makes-the-poison]

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.

When we all know everyone’s life

has been hard enough already

it’s hard to watch

the game we make of love,

like everyone’s playing checkers

with their scars,

saying checkmate

whenever they get out

without a broken heart.

Just to be clear

I don’t want to get out

without a broken heart.

I intend to leave this life

so shattered

there’s gonna have to be

a thousand separate heavens

for all of my flying parts.

Royal Heart, Andrea Gibson

[heartofmuse]

There are moments of intense vulnerability, moments when the missing you is so intense it takes my breath away, moments when only being wrapped in your arms will make it ok.

e.v.e.

[howtomakeyousee]

[yousaveeveryonebutwhosavesyou]

Do people understand that when you say “I’m tired” it doesn’t mean “I didn’t get enough sleep last night” or “I need more physical energy”?

It means I am drained. I have been fighting through each day just to wake up and do it again. I am tired of existing in a world where everything feels like a struggle and nothing feels right. I am tired of fighting negative thoughts. I am tired of waking up.

[rainydays]

Lonely nights.

[letterstotherestofme]

Thank Goodness

A love poem for Buddy Wakefield By Andrea Gibson

At the end of your ten day meditation retreat you got in your car drove thirty peaceful feet and ran over a bird. Splayed its holy guts on the pavement like God finger-painting “Fuck you” across that deep breath you were holding the way your mother held her first born.

You, thank goodness were torn from the Bible the day before they burned it for the verse about dancing to tambourines. Once you saw the blood of Christ on a knife carving redwood trees into church pews. Now every Sunday morning you hear glaciers melting and you cry easy as a one night stand never ever is when you see the feathers in your rear-view mirror scattering like prayers searching for a safe place to land.

Hold me to my word when I tell you I will leave today, catch a bus ticket west just to stand in the center of your highway blocking traffic ‘til every feather’s answered. I’ve see too many prayers caught in the grills of 18 wheelers and folks like us have shoulder blades that rust in the rain, but they’re still g sharp whenever our spinal chords are tuned to the key of redemption. So go ahead world pick us to make things better.

We’ve been building a bridge through the center of this song since Mother Theresa replaced the walls of her church with the weeping cries of Calcutta’s orphaned ghettos. You wanna know what the right wing never got? We never questioned the existence of God. What we questioned is his bulldozer turning Palestine into a gas chamber. What we questioned is the manger in Macy’s and the sweatshops our children call the North Pole. What we question are the sixty swollen lashes on the back of a girl found guilty of the crime of allowing herself to be brutally raped. What we question is the idea of a heaven having gates. Silly.

Have you never stood on the end of pier watching the moon live up to her name? Have you never looked in the eyes of a thief and seen his children’s hungry bellies? Some days my heart beats so fast my ribcage sounds like a fucking railroad track and my breath is a train I just can’t catch.

So when my friends go filling their lungs with yes. When they’re peeling off their armor and falling like snowflakes on your holy tongue. God collects the feathers. We are thick skin covering nothing, but wish bones. Break in. You’ll find notebooks full of jaw lines we wrote to religion’s clenched fist. Yeah, We bruise easy. But the sound of our bouncing back is a grand canyon full of choir claps. And our five pointed stars have always been open to the answer whatever it is.

I know David argued with the chisle. I know he said make me softer When those tourists come looking for a hero I want the rain to puddle in my pores. Build me holy like that. Build me a kite flown out a bedroom window at midnight the day freedom set its curfew to 9:11.

My heaven is a snow globe. The blizzard will always be worth the touch of your hand, shaking me awake like a boy taking deep breaths all the way down to the dents in his shins like he’s building a telephone from a string and two tin cans. He knows God’s number by heart. He knows it isn’t listed in any book. Look me in the bull’s eye, in the laws I broke and the promises I didn’t in the batteries I found when the lights went out And the prayers I found when the brakes did too. I got this moment and no idea when it will end. But every second of this life is scripture and to know that trust me, we don’t need to be born again.

[askyea-poesy]

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 l'm not afraid of your dark.

Andrea Gibson

[exitiale-vitium]

El Marchbanks | Instagram, TikTok | Linktree

Deep South Academia. A sometimes writer. An always poet

[ca-d]

🩵

[cozyvu]

[wordx]

I wasn't meant for casual love. Your heartbeat will be my favorite song, your eyes my favorite color, your words my favorite poem, and even your imperfections will be my favorite piece of art.

[for-flowers-sake]

[thoughtkick]

“I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.”

— Andrea Gibson