Lletres: Pageninetynine. Document #8. Your Face Is A Rape Scene.

That whisper,
your lovely curling razor,
mistakenly wound around my tongue
to squeeze some fucking truth
from that wicked obsession,
your obsession,
where I can pass by.
They do that when you're dead alive.
I could count stars,
and you counted screams,
so if you would please just hand me my ticket,
I will go and join the ground.
It was where I was in the first place