Naive, I was not. I grew up
on tattered books and nihilistic ideals
while the other children read
books about stuffed bears and trees.

They warned me about the addicts:
The fiends with black capes and red eyes,
the ones who wander the night, searching
for new corners and new highs.

They warned me about the *** offenders:
The neighborhood sweethearts with soft eyes
and cold hands, who are more often than not,
but not restricted to the body, of middle-aged men.

They warned me about the murderers:
The ones with ice for pupils and books of spells.
Who drank smoke and whose hearts reside
in the far off corner somewhere in east hell.

These are the people my parents forgot to warn me about:
The lovers with a knack for spoon feeding me lies, whose
wings were black and who were blessed
with golden eyes.

They didn't warn me about the pretty boys.
About the ones who cup your heart
in their hands, and play around with it like putty.
Somehow, they forgot to mention that part.

But, then again, you can't teach a child about heartache,
and the only way a child will know what you mean when you
tell them that the stove is hot is if they burn themselves
on the warm, steel door that is life.