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I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Feelings
Ends
Scars
Body
Scar
Something
Swear
Like
Search
Empty
Feeling
Taken

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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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Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
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I don't know where I end and the world begins. My best guess? Skin. It's the only actual boundary between the body and the world, between a body and any other body.
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When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.
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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'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.
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Fairy tales have rules. You are a princess or you aren’t. You are pure at heart or you aren’t. If you are pure at heart, or lucky, you might catch a break.
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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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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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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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You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.
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I wouldn’t kill your pony. I’d like to believe it, anyway. I’d like to believe I wouldn’t drag you out in to the woods and leave you there, either. So far, it hasn’t come up.
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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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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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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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I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made any sense, anything.
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He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.
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