… The truth that,
my blood is black,
my heart a stone,
my face made of paper-
and you´ve rewritten me,
written all over me.
Your words
your ideas,
your damn will…
Every time you etch my skin
with your dreams…
You´ll find me quietly,
writing insane laughter,
and hot tears, silhouettes –
of rage, passion and murder.
But, if I´m not killing you…
who did I slay then?
