I told the boy with the light hair and the eyes of tears. I told him the consequences of loving me.
I told him that he'd never get enough, because I simply wouldn't give it.
I told him, right before I played with his soft plush lips. I told him that I didn't want anything to do with him. Just this one tango, the only dance I ever learned. When the big guy decided little girls with butterflies in their hair were fun to dance with.
I told him how he'd never forget me. How I'd rob his heart and hold it in a chest.
I told him that I was the girl his mother warned him about. The beautiful brunette with the wild eyes and burning skin. The one who'd steal his heart and never give it back.
And I lay here tonight at 4am and wonder why he never told me about him.
How he never told me I'd think, every waking moment and even some off-stretched dreams, about why he always came back. Or about why he stopped coming.
He never told me that he was the boy my mother warned me about. The blonde with the sad eyes and freezing skin. She warned me to stay away from the dead who were still living, because those boys were trouble.
But you see, my chest, the one that troubled boys heart is held not so carefully in, I loved to dance with the devil, ever since the devil danced with me and changed the butterfly barrettes to molten lipstick I use to steal quiet boys hearts. And wonder why they never return.
I lay here at 5am, next to the big guy with sad eyes and cold skin that likes to dance with daughters and not their mothers, and wonder why the boy never told me the consequences of loving him.