Your Face
Pageninetynine, Mike Taylor
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That whisper, your 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 the stars, and you counted the 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.