Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating a fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him
and i want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
Its’s thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.
-Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken
You swallow my heart and flee, but i want it back now, baby. I want it back.
-Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken
We’re shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
-Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken
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.
