I knew your name all along.

It's not love—it's trouble,

and I wanted none of it.

But all those people out there, watching us,

they don't want to die.

They want a happy ending,

to take their mind off all their own mistakes.

And you? bent knee, tears streaking through your makeup,

voice hoarse from screaming through the night for me—

you stare at me, besotted beyond sanity,

as if that other girl hadn't just died for love of you.

It's all my fault, isn't it?

I should have told you from the start to go away,

but no, I made it all a game,

and you won, fair and square.

Games work like that sometimes,

but not love, never love.

Why do you woo me, anyway?

Sheer challenge? Some chance gleam in my eye

as it drifted over the milling mob you stood in?

You'd known nothing of me until that day.

And I know even less of you:

the royal roots you claim,

the misplaced trust of that poor girl.

Why would I fall in love?

But now her blood is on my hands,

and they're all watching, expecting love to conquer.

They've heard your song; they're waiting to go home—

won't she just melt already? Kiss her harder!

. . . Do I deserve a happy ending?

I don't know—but at this point,

it's easiest just to play along.