bits of crush by richard siken that make me see shrimp colours
tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake / and dress them in warm clothes again
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days / were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces. / look at the light through the windowpane. that means it’s noon, that means / we’re inconsolable. / tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. / these, our bodies, possessed by light. / tell me we’ll never get used to it.
there’s a part in the movie / where you can see right through the acting, / where you can tell that i’m about to burst into tears, / right before i burst into tears
all I can do / is stand on the curb and say 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.
i take off my hands and i give them to you but you don’t / want them, so i take them back / and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists.
hello darling, sorry about that. / sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we / lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell / and how i ruined everything by saying it out loud. / especially that, but i should have known. / 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.
here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all / forgiven, / even though we didn’t deserve it.
you said love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. it’s like a religion. it’s terrifying.
we clutch our bellies and roll on the floor… / when i say this, it should mean laughter, / not poison.
the dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.
you swallow a bottle of sleeping pills but they don’t work… / … your co-workers ask / if everything’s okay and you tell them / you’re just tired. / and you’re trying to smile. and they’re trying to smile.
a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river / but then he’s still left / with the river. a man taker his sadness and throws it away / but then he’s still left with his hands.
you do this, you do. you take the things you love / and tear them apart.
and his hands? / his hands keep turning into birds and / flying away from him. him being you. / yes. do you love yourself? i don’t have to / answer that.
in these dreams it’s always you: / the boy in the sweatshirt, / the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me / from jumping off the bridge. / oh, the things we invent when we are scared / and want to be rescued.
your feet were burning so i put my hands on them, but my hands / were burning too. / you had a bottle of pills but i wouldn’t let you swallow them. / you said will you love me even more when i’m dead? / and i said no, and i threw the pills on the sand.
i had four dreams in a row / where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire… / … four dreams in a row, four dreams in row, four dreams in a row, / fall down right there. i wanted to fall down right there but i knew / you wouldn’t catch me because you’re dead. i swallowed crushed ice / pretending it was glass and you’re dead.
i don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.
(names) shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops, / or muffled by pillows, or whispered in sleep, / or caught in the throat like a lump of meat. / i try, i do. i try and try. a happy ending? / sure enough - hello darling, welcome home. / i’ll call you darling, hold you tight.
and yes, i do believe / his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me / like stars
names like pain cries, names / like tombstones, names forgotten and reinvented, / names forbidden or overused. your name like / a song i sing to myself, your name like a box / where i keep my love
i just don’t want to die anymore.
because you want to die for love, / you always have.
there’s only one thing i want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, / i’m bleeding, i’m not making conversation. / there’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars.
but we both know how it goes - i say i want you inside me and you hold / my head underwater, i say i want you inside me and you split me open / with a knife.
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 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 like the bullet / was already there, like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.
if you love me, henry, you don’t love me / in a way i understand.
this is where the evening / splits in half, henry, love or death. grab an end, pull hard, / and make a wish.
there should be just one safe place / in the world, i mean / this world. people get hurt here. people fall down and stay down and i don’t like the way the song goes.
we have not been given all the words necessary.
cut me open and the light streams out. / stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out between / the stitches.
o how he loves you, darling boy. o how, like / always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep / next to him
the afternoon light / is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout counters. / take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, / holding onto it and not letting it go. now let it go.
it’s time to choose sides now. / the stitches or the devouring mouth?
you’re in the car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves / you, but he loves you. and you feel like you’ve done something terrible, / like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself / a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, / and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to / choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and / he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your / heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you / don’t even have a name for.
i sleep. i dream. i make up things / that i would never say. i say them very quietly.
we have not touched the stars, / nor are we forgiven… / … is that too much to expect? that i would name the stars / for you?
do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
we are all just trying to be holy.