_ Il m'a dit, ‘Je t'aime’, mais j'ai secoué la tête._

He would give you beautiful love

but you would hate him entirely.

All of your friends decide it better,

for you to play hard to get, you see.

And what’s better than faking?

Oh, my dear, _reality_ is far superior.

Because if you get a little attached,

your worthy love will feel inferior.

You knew quite enough about love,

and its treacherous connection to hell.

It lures you in, with sappy words, “I do.”

as if instead of show, they just would tell.

They would let your heart swoon,

but they would let it burst into flames;

let the sun spark the fiery ashes,

‘till you’re the only scapegoat to blame.

You told yourself and your friends

that hard to get was the game of a kid.

But truly, my dear, it never really was.

You had yet to accept even one nice gift.

And even if he was a kind soul,

he would give you a slow death,

because everything else he tried,

the time he spent to give them depth,

the lovely things, all had yet to suffice.

And on your hurried last breath,

you mumbled a quiet “I love you”

and with that brought a surprise,

whether it was right or true,

it still mattered to both him and you.

He gave you death,

as if it were coffee.

He gave you death

and you—

_ Et je l'ai aimé pour ça._