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Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine. I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Mine
Jacket
Kill
Longest
Couldn
Jackets
Boys
Wore
Blood
Mouth
Wish
Mouths
Time
Sorry
Mines

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I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
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I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.
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We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.
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If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
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Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
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I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings/ and you say I'll give you anything but you never come through.
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Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued.
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I’m not suggesting the world is good, that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?
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When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.
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I am singing now while Rome burns.
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Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?
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Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
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Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.
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You wanted happiness, I can’t blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.
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You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.
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Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands, these shins, these soapy flanks
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You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.
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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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