ROMANCE IS DEAD! Papà claimed so vividly as he slid his hands down a woman's hips, a woman who wasn't mamma, and told me to never fall in love. Here you stand, though; a fresh dream of forbidden pleasures and chaos. You came unwanted and I scream at the thought of you, how you play with the tip of your hair and remind me of his hands, and her hips, and the liberty of action; the free will of an anarchist's wet dream.
Elation takes over me when I watch you tremble underneath my body; I know that you want me to press harder and help you travel through the air. I don't want to hurt you, but I know I will. I will play with your heartstrings and choke you with them because that's what papà taught me. You will thank me, and beg me to kill you over, and over, and over again. You will turn into a dead siren, as dead as romance, and will cry to me:
Love me,
ama me,
ama me,
love me!
But I won't love you; papà said only dead boys can love girls like you.
