stranger, j'ai quelque chose a dire
When you kiss me I'm filled with electricity and the desire to do a million things. I share a universe when you kiss me and even though I hate sharing, I can tolerate it with you. The tolerance is thin and it makes me incredibly vulnerable. But at the very least I notice it and I can stop myself from building too many barricades against you. This way the war won't break out over the tiniest thing and you won't leave me broken, lost, alone, and estranged from something that I really can't stop myself from needing.
You're far from a cocaine addiction, and I'm toeing the line of an addict. You're a requirement and the provider and your drugs are not so easy to buy. 'Cause I'll do absolutely anything, anything to get your lips on my own. I'll put on creams and powders that only do so much to change what I want; I'll dive into a food-restricted life that doesn't do much to change a targeted problem; and every little sycophantic gesture has an equal or greater exchange rate and at least I don't hide it. At least I don't manipulate you into thinking that you're an adulterating bastard if you even find any sort of attraction in any other woman and deep down I do it only because I want to be the special one but never tell you--because if I didn't it would come out with the tears anyway when I finally lost it all.
"I'm sorry honey, darling, sweetheart--so sorry," would be mumbling, two-year-old gestures of redeeming myself if I ever was that sort of dishonest slut.
The only reason I tell you is because you're not Stephen King's Carrie. When I think of you, I don't get paranoid like the latch on window of my head isn't as weather durable as the packaging promised and rusted through way back in the spring of '05 when everything old was you again. I tell you because only I know what I want, and you can't dictate that for me. I won't let you, and you relish that as you kiss my mouth harder than you anticipated and you crush my body to yours in a reflex that you never knew you had. My knees buckle. I blush. All of the synapse in my brain that I worked so hard at maturing end up in a continuing misfire.
The only reason you know that I bite my lips is because you can feel their worried texture when you introduce me into a new universe that you've created for two only, that's the limit kids. Something that we will never show to all the rest because they don't need it like we do. Something that I can hardly admit to responding to because it completes me.
Way back in the summer, as girls skirts got shorter and my insecurities got larger, I first looked into your eyes and saw my own reflection and so desperately wanted to break that mirror. Not just because you had already shattered mine, but because I know that you are not me. And I'm already too much to deal with.
I'm like a flame around gasoline, baby, and you're a goddamed moth. It's a mutualism with potential parasitism and it doesn't need my ninth grade biology teacher's murky assignments and grading system to understand that. We're always arguing and seeing how far we can push our luck and I love it. I'm always on the edge of the cliff and you're the one below me telling me not to look down.
When you kiss me it's a sunrise.
It's a child's laugh. It's the dew drops on the double fibbonaci spiral of a rose as velveteen scarlet unfolds in the light of a world that refuses possesives like the kid at the party who won't take the hit like his buddies and ends up dying in a wreck because his buddies buddy passed out at the wheel.
Minus the tragedy, double the irony, and add two shots of reality.
You're far from a cocaine addiction, and I'm toeing the line of an addict. You're a requirement and the provider and your drugs are not so easy to buy. 'Cause I'll do absolutely anything, anything to get your lips on my own. I'll put on creams and powders that only do so much to change what I want; I'll dive into a food-restricted life that doesn't do much to change a targeted problem; and every little sycophantic gesture has an equal or greater exchange rate and at least I don't hide it. At least I don't manipulate you into thinking that you're an adulterating bastard if you even find any sort of attraction in any other woman and deep down I do it only because I want to be the special one but never tell you--because if I didn't it would come out with the tears anyway when I finally lost it all.
"I'm sorry honey, darling, sweetheart--so sorry," would be mumbling, two-year-old gestures of redeeming myself if I ever was that sort of dishonest slut.
The only reason I tell you is because you're not Stephen King's Carrie. When I think of you, I don't get paranoid like the latch on window of my head isn't as weather durable as the packaging promised and rusted through way back in the spring of '05 when everything old was you again. I tell you because only I know what I want, and you can't dictate that for me. I won't let you, and you relish that as you kiss my mouth harder than you anticipated and you crush my body to yours in a reflex that you never knew you had. My knees buckle. I blush. All of the synapse in my brain that I worked so hard at maturing end up in a continuing misfire.
The only reason you know that I bite my lips is because you can feel their worried texture when you introduce me into a new universe that you've created for two only, that's the limit kids. Something that we will never show to all the rest because they don't need it like we do. Something that I can hardly admit to responding to because it completes me.
Way back in the summer, as girls skirts got shorter and my insecurities got larger, I first looked into your eyes and saw my own reflection and so desperately wanted to break that mirror. Not just because you had already shattered mine, but because I know that you are not me. And I'm already too much to deal with.
I'm like a flame around gasoline, baby, and you're a goddamed moth. It's a mutualism with potential parasitism and it doesn't need my ninth grade biology teacher's murky assignments and grading system to understand that. We're always arguing and seeing how far we can push our luck and I love it. I'm always on the edge of the cliff and you're the one below me telling me not to look down.
When you kiss me it's a sunrise.
It's a child's laugh. It's the dew drops on the double fibbonaci spiral of a rose as velveteen scarlet unfolds in the light of a world that refuses possesives like the kid at the party who won't take the hit like his buddies and ends up dying in a wreck because his buddies buddy passed out at the wheel.
Minus the tragedy, double the irony, and add two shots of reality.