Tears on your cheeks and red rings round your eyes,
Watching you suffer and eat up my lies,
Your head on a platter, your heart mine to sing,
These are a few of my favorite things.
Sweet-whispered nothings and gifts with no meaning,
Snapping the crutch upon which you are leaning,
Crushing your dreams and putting hopes into slings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
You at my door and bouquets of violets,
Your love across paper and your future silence,
You bowed on one knee and a pawned diamond ring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
The melody had been burned into your throat a long time ago, the lyrics branded to your bones, the meaning welded deep into your head. You flinch when you hear it; you've long since banned it from your roommates' collections. It brings nightmares back into your pretty mind, it never fails. Those words, twisted from the second he heard them, have been woven into every kick, every pinch, every hateful word. The way he used to hum it while you squirmed beside him, unable to call for help.
They say you don't have a heart.
Why is that? they wonder. You don't have to wonder. You've loved pretty things since the day you could see: shiny, sparkly, colorful, vivid, they all made an impression on your toddler mind. But you've never trusted them. You knew. You could see what your mother did to your father, with her pretty, her charms. You've seen beauty's damage. You've felt it.
And he didn't help, your brother. He had the subtle, graceful beauty of your father, with handsome features and a winning smile, but that only made you fall farther into his trap. He turned out to be the kind of boy who tormented his little half-sister wherever they went. He turned out to be the kind of boy who used his angel's smile and beautiful eyes to deceive anyone who looked at him.
And that's what made you hate beautiful people—beautiful men. From then on, it was all about beautiful things. Diamonds and rubies and mascara and lip gloss, that was all that mattered. And you were so glad when you could finally leave that place, and him with it. But you never recovered.
He made you the kind of girl who saw nothing but flaws. And mainly with men.
His kind is so fragile. So delicate. So weak. Your nose wrinkles at the sight of them. At the thought of them. You can't help it. Their mistakes just make you sick. Like poison, you've always said; nauseating and deadly. Yet, curiously enough, you can't seem to stay away.
And you hate him so—you hate them so. For being so intoxicating, for being so addictive. And you punish them, bit by bit, little by little, so that they hurt and they hurt, but they won't know it's you.
(Tears on your cheeks and red rings round your eyes)
And you do it in little ways: you simper. (Careful, dear, he's better than you.) You sneer. (Oh please, hon, don't hurt yourself.) You lie. (Of course I love you.) And you do it all so you can sit back and watch them wither and die and crumble like dust.
(Watching you suffer and eat up my lies)
You love the game more than the pieces. You like stealing their faith, their hope. You like the whispers you hear when you pass by. You love the looks on their faces when they realize that yet another of them has fallen to your collection.
(Your head on a platter, you voice mine to sing)
And you place each tear, each broken heart, under lock and key in your box of favorite things.
(These are a few of my favorite things)
You listen to their promises, mostly Iloveyous and some I'lltakecareofyous and a few I'malwayshereforyous. And you hear their compliments, mostly Youlookbeautifuls and some You'rehot and a few Iwantyous. And then you laugh in their faces. You take their little presents, mostly necklaces and some rings and a few bracelets and crush them underfoot.
(Sweet-whispered nothings and gifts with no meaning)
You endure their problems and give them back-fire advice on purpose, waiting for when they come running back with their tails between their legs and you can push them away and make them cry harder. You tear down their morale and take delight in their pain. You shoot down their solutions and cut away their enthusiasm. And you laugh when you remember that even past that, they won't leave. You're too good for that.
(Snapping the crutch upon which you are leaning)
You smile at their declarations of love and roll your eyes at their offers. You cradle their hopes and you hold their dreams and you carefully strip them bare, until you can snap them in your manicured fingers and they'll hardly notice. You hand them their broken hearts in a Tupperware container and watch them try to tape it back up. You like watching Humpty Dumpty try to put himself together again. Except the real Humpty Dumpty's lucky, because he didn't have you ripping off the tape.
(Crushing your dreams and putting hopes into slings)
And you take their broken souls and add them to your box of favorite things.
(These are a few of my favorite things)
They flock to your doorstep like cats who hear the can opener. You open the door, take in the sight—bright hopeful faces with underlying dread. You simper condescendingly and shut the door in their faces, laughing when you see them skitter off, ecstatic to have even seen your face. You take their bouquets and add each one to your collection—a symphony of colors and scents, an orchestra of admirers' tokens. And you let them die one by one, in clear view of the window for all to see.
(You at my door and bouquets of violets)
You take their love letters—pages and pages of them, some with flowers, some with perfect handwriting, some with just plain love, and you hand them back in pieces. And you absolutely love the way it makes them crumble, guarantees their silence.
(Your love scrawled across paper and your future silence)
You giggle to see them there, bowing to you on one knee, raising that shiny little bauble like it belongs to a god. And you wait for a moment, to give them hope. You smile prettily and stare at the gift, and then you take the ring and you obliterate their last shreds of hope.
(You bowed on one knee and a pawned diamond ring)
And you sigh when they leave, pushed away by none other than you. But you add their names to your collection, and you wait for the next victim of your box of favorite things.
(These are a few of my favorite things)