Sunday, March 2, 2014

i tried to stay away…i fought...i prayed…i lied to myself…but in the end, i had to see you.

Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you’re standing up

you look like you’re lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby?

You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet

lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because

it’s all I have,

because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your

slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this

bullet inside me

‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.

—Richard Siken

(I told the Poet that this poem reminded me of us...with all the denial that was going on at the time, I'm surprised I picked it...I feel physically sick when I think about how he's learnt to treat women and the fact that he's gotten away with it for so're a sick manipulative asshole and I hate you)