anotherhand (anotherhand) wrote,

A Primer For The Small Weird Loves - Richard Siken


       The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater
because he is trying to kill you,
              and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,
                            and you are ready to die in this swimming pool
       because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means
                                                                         your life is over anyway.
                     You’re in the eighth grade. You know these things.
       You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do
              long division,
and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless
                                   he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you
                                                                             didn’t do,
       because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.


       A dark-haired man in a rented bungalow is licking the whiskey
from the back of your wrist.
              He feels nothing,
                     keeps a knife in his pocket,
                                          peels an apple right in front of you
              while you tramp around a mustard-colored room
in your underwear
                            drinking Dutch beer from a green bottle.
       After everything that was going to happen has happened
you ask only for the cab fare home
                     and realize you should have asked for more
                                   because he couldn't care less, either way.


       The man on top of you is teaching you how to hate, see you
as a piece of real estate,
                     just another fallow field lying underneath him
                                                 like a sacrifice.
       He's turning your back into a table so he doesn't have to
              eat off the floor, so he can get comfortable,
pressing against you until he fits, until he's made a place for himself
                                                               inside you
The clock ticks from five to six. Kissing degenerates into biting.
       So you get a kidney punch, a little blood in your urine.
                                          It isn't over yet, it's just begun.


       Says to himself
                     The boy's no good. The boy is just no good.
              but he takes you in his arms and pushes your flesh around
                                   to see if you could ever be ugly to him.
You, the now familiar whipping boy, but you're beautiful,
                                                        he can feel the dogs licking his heart.
       Who gets the whip and who gets the hoops of flame?
                                          He hits you and he hits you and he hits you.
Desire driving his hands right into your body.
                     Hush, my sweet. These tornadoes are for you.
You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things.
                            You wanted to be in love
                                                        and he happened to get in the way.


       The green-eyed boy in the powder-blue t-shirt standing
next to you in the supermarket recoils as if hit,
                     repeatedly, by a lot of men, as if he has a history of it.
       This is not your problem.
                                          You have your own body to deal with.
       The lamp by the bed is broken.
You are feeling things he's no longer in touch with.
                     And everyone is speaking softly,
                                                        so as not to wake one another.
       The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together.
                            Steam rises from every cup at every table at once.
Things happen all the time, things happen every minute
                                                        that have nothing to do with us.


So you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes
                     before knowledge,
                                          and you want it dirty.
              And no one can ever figure out what you want,
                                                                      and you won't tell them,
and you realize the one person in the world who loves you
                                                 isn't the one you thought it would be,
       and you don't trust him to love you in a way
                                                                             you would enjoy.
                                   And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy.
And the boy who loves you the wrong way keeps weakening.
              You thought if you handed over your body
                                                               he'd do something interesting.


The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to
       sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him
                                   you will want to get inside him, and ruin him,
       but he doesn't listen.
You do this, you do. You take the things you love
                                                                      and tear them apart
       or you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours.
So, you kiss him, and he doesn't move, he doesn't
       pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn't moved,
he's frozen, and you've kissed him, and he'll never
                            forgive you, and maybe now he'll leave you alone.

Tags: and it felt like a kiss, lost thing intoxicated, richard siken, sixteen going on seventeen
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded