"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.

And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I
wake up and you’re still dead, you’re under the table, you’re still feeding
the damn dog, you’re cutting the room in half.
Whatever.           Feed him whatever.           Burn the straw house down."

_{Richard Siken, Straw House Straw dog.}

May 14th 2016 at 10:38pm

_{"Our Poem"}