Birthday for Jenn
Andrea Gibson Lyrics

At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon And beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts.
I started menstruation and became violent towards boys who wanted to be astronauts.

I fought with my knuckles white as stars, And left bruises the shape of Salem.
I fought with such intensity that my knuckles turned pale and my bruises resembled Salem.

There are things we know by heart, And things we don′t.
There are things we internalize and there are things that we simply do not.

At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke. I’d watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos, But I could never make dying beautiful.
At 13, my friend attempted to teach me how to smoke but I was unable to make it look appealing.

The sky didn’t fill with colors the night I convinced myself Veins are kite strings you can only cut free.
I did not feel liberated when I came to believe that veins are like kite strings that can only be severed.

I suppose I love this life, In spite of my clenched fist.
Despite my violent tendencies, I still hold love for my life.

I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree, And there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers, 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.
My open palm reminds me of an Aspen tree and it harbors songbirds. I wonder whether Beethoven felt the same exhilaration as a soldier does when he fires his gun.

We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
Each one of us experiences reasons for losing our breath.

But my lungs remember The day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly And told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister’s heartbeat.
I recall the moment my mother placed my hand on her belly and shared with me the melody of my infant sister's heartbeat.

And I knew life would tremble Like the first tear on a prison guard’s hardened cheek, Like a prayer on a dying man’s lips, Like a vet holding a full bottle of whisky like an empty gun in a war zone Just take me Just take me
In that moment, I understood that life is like a tear from a prison guard, a mourner's prayer, and a soldier's longing to be free of their misery.

Sometimes the scales themselves weigh far too much, The heaviness of forever balancing blue sky with red blood.
At times, the task of balancing good and evil becomes too heavy, and it feels like we are carrying too much weight.

We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways, But you still have to call it a birthday.
Each day that we are born, there are people dying in horrible ways, yet we will still celebrate it as a birthday.

You still have to fall for the prettiest girl on the playground at recess And hope she knows you can hit a baseball Further than any boy in the whole third grade And I’ve been running for home
We all have to experience falling for that pretty girl at recess and hoping she would recognize our athletic prowess. I've been yearning for home.

Through the windpipe of a man who sings While his hands playing washboard with a spoon On a street corner in New Orleans Where every boarded up window is still painted with the words We’re Coming Back Like a promise to the ocean That we will always keep moving towards the music, The way Basquait slept in a cardboard box to be closer to the rain.
I can hear a man's song in the streets of New Orleans, tapping a washboard with a spoon. Amidst the boarded-up buildings that harbor the phrase 'We're Coming Back' like a promise to the ocean. This reminds me of Basquait who slept in a cardboard box, closer to the rain.

Beauty, catch me on your tongue. Thunder, clap us open.
May beauty surround us and thunder strike us to awaken our senses.

The pupils in our eyes were not born to hide beneath their desks.
Our eyes were never meant to be concealed under desks.

Tonight lay us down to rest in the Arizona dessert, Then wake us washing the feet of pregnant women Who climbed across the border with their bellies aimed towards the sun.
Tonight, allow us to rest in the Arizona desert before waking to wash the feet of pregnant women who crossed the border with their bellies towards the sun.

I know a thousand things louder than a soldier’s gun. I know the heartbeat of his mother.
I know countless things that make more noise than a soldier's gun, and I am familiar with his mother's heartbeat.

Don’t cover your ears, Love. Don’t cover your ears, Life.
Do not cover your ears from love or life.

There is a boy writing poems in Central Park And as he writes he moves And his bones become the bars of Mandela’s jail cell stretching apart, And there are men playing chess in the December cold Who can’t tell if the breath rising from the board Is their opponents or their own, And there's a woman on the stairwell of the subway Swearing she can hear Niagara Falls from her rooftop in Brooklyn, And I’m remembering how Niagara Falls is a city overrun With strip malls and traffic and vendors And one incredibly brave river that makes it all worth it.
Observing a boy write poems in Central Park, his very bones conjure up Mandela's prison bars, there are men playing chess in the cold who cannot decipher whether it's their breath or their opponent's. Meanwhile, a woman swears she can hear Niagara falls from her Brooklyn rooftop. This reminds me of Niagara Falls as a city filled with vendors and strip malls, however, it's the river that makes it all worth it.

Ya’ll, I know this world is far from perfect. I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon. I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.
I know that we live in an imperfect world and I am not so naive to mistake a streetlight for the moon. Our wounds are as deep as the Atlantic.

But every ocean has a shoreline And every shoreline has a tide That is constantly returning To wake the songbirds in our hands, To wake the music in our bones, To place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river That has to run through the center of our hearts To find its way home.
Each ocean is bordered by a shore and witnesses a returning tide. It gives way to the songbirds in our hands, the music in our bones, and the brave river that flows through the center of our hearts, while always finding its way home.