Testo 27

What a clever cleaver that pointing finger.
What a Judas that that sleeping head.
Saving skin, turning cheeks,
tip toeing and screening these unwanted phone calls.
I can hear her crotch-flavored mouth sighing
while in someone else's arms.
I can hear her friction-scarred thighs asking for amnesia.
We walked, our bare feet crushing neon signs up and down the avenue and all I can think about is scratching my initials on her pale flesh.
Fermina.