You know that song, “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?”. It’s never like that. You won’t puff from paper lined with your saliva, rather you’ll smoke the loose ended curiosity about me until it sparks a carnal craving for something you’ve never felt. You’ll spark me under the night stars like a drug you’ve never had before, one puff, and you’ll never want me again.
So it’s more like why’d you only call me when my diamonds were polished beneath the moonlight purely shining with a clean innocence. Hidden in the darkness of your liquor laced vision are the rubies that leak from my scars and the stardust that falls from my mouth after midnight. Hidden are the bruises from other lips and the scratches from their nails. The blood they drew, the whispers pierced along the flesh of my ears, and the leftover handprints that linger beneath the clothing of clean purity.
You’ll crave the girl who’s smile is brighter than the sun and the stars, distanced from pollution that leaks through other’s lips. But you won’t call the girl who spills words of dirt, tracking their vowels through the wool sheets until they bed her teeth and tongue.
You’ll call the girl whose eyes have only crawled beneath the skin of the stars and the crimson fury of the sunsets. You’ll ask her to watch sunrise beside you, to crawl into your arms and kiss your skin with her lips of dying innocence. But you won’t look at the girl who crawled beneath your skin just the night before, her eyes tired and used, already dead. They’re drained of their constellation blues and their stories of wonder because you’ve already explored their fate, you’ve already read her book and put your hands on the blank spaces between the lines, getting to know every inch of her. She is no longer a wonder to the world. No longer an unread curiosity of shining diamonds and glowing stars while you watch her writhe beneath your pulling touches of tease.
Though, that girl you finally do call, falling into the whispers of her drugging innocence, will be no different tomorrow. Yet tonight, she will be your newest book, holding the most love inducing stories and constellations you can’t help but reach for on the shelves of untouched womanly wonders. Her lips like the taste of distilled liquor from the cups you shared over dirtied sheets, her kisses will bribe you to lose yourself in them, to forget the girl from last night. To get lost in the exploration of her every line and crevice and edge, polishing her diamonds and studying her stars like one of those historical astronomers.
And then tomorrow morning while she crawls under your skin, hoping to stitch herself in, you’ll shelve her on the book shelf of conquered pages and explored galaxies, she’ll be a trophy of ego feeding entertainment and that’s all. A drug you never want to try again.
But you’re no different from the girl last night and she already read you too. She’s a big reader…if you didn’t know.
