(no subject)

 

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, excerpt from Wishbone