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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
Couldn
Jackets
Boys
Wore
Blood
Mouth
Wish
Mouths
Time
Sorry
Mines
Mine
Jacket
Kill
Longest

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Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.
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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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You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.
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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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The light is no mystery, the mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.
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I am singing now while Rome burns.
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I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.
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If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
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The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling.
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Here I am in a rabbit run, here I am in a valley of pine, waiting for you to find me. I could pretend I’m speaking to everyone—assume a middle distance and transcend myself—but I’m taking to you and you know it.
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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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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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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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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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Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
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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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We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much.
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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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He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place – well then, game over.
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