Tongue

I want to slit my wrists with charcoal
Up to the elbows
So that the pain would flood
The colour in the mouth
A cross to break
With the chunks of chopstick teeth
Take them both
As I'd gain belief
To stroke
In myself
To choke upon the door knob
To fall
With the taste of fear
As I'd be sunken in plastic
Make yellow out of me
I used to watch that
When someone would jump
And I'd scream
Upon the sundae
With death licking the spoon
Which is shoved sideways into my mouth
The ice cream on my cheek
With a bony finger
Slitting itself
The sky shall break in blue
The fingertips hung
A guillotine
Among the paint
With the scribbled night
The yellow stars
Which should've been the first
With no point to erase
Or gums to break
Under a pink pen

---

First of all, I'm sorry for not being able to post a new chapter of Roman's struggles this week. I've been quite ill and still am, at least my coughing describes everything. So I've been focusing on my heath, writing in breaks, I've been working on a massive poem whenever I had the energy and keeping my health up.

Papercut shall be posted entirely before April, sorry for the week's wait.

The poem above was edited slightly before posted, as in the line with the stars as the current night seems to lack some, besides the ones plastered on my window.

The name came from me mishearing a word as I was thinking of the title and hearing the word 'tongue' instead.

Teeth