I can't think of a title

My mamma told me not to waste tears on your types.
But I never listened.
So I cried and cried and cried. Till I had shed every grain of salt there was in the ocean.
But that's just the ending.

Winter had me all bundled up in nanna's fluffy slippers and old robes. But you had me flee my clothing in a jiffy as you played me with those suggestive eyes.
It only took one week and 7 hours and 39 seconds exactly for me to fall in love with you. Or should I say with your hands? Because that's what it was really about.
The weather was your favourite topic and you sang to me about dusty desert roads and waterfalls. I peered at you with Cheshire eyes and gave you butterfly kisses til dawn snuck through the curtains.
Together we made banana cakes in the dark hours of July and wrote sexy notes to each other in August.
I remember the day, with a smile in my stomach, you picked me up on your bike with the rusty wheels and you had blue highlights in your hair. And mother, she just looked at me with that look and shook her head.
I should have stored that look in my locker and keep-safed it for later when it would be important.
You took me behind that old bike shed and kissed me in sacred places and we got snapped by that geezer who owned the place. We laughed on the dirty pavement then ate chips on an old tire swing.
Daddy didn't like you. Or your beat up car you "bought" from a yard. He didn't like the way your thoughts lingered on my curves for too long or the way you drunk your coffee. But I thought you were perfect.

I don't remember what happened. The vodka was slurring my words and injecting my veins with incredulity. My eyes were hazy and I thought they were playing games with me, but maybe it was just the green stuff I smoked earlier.
There you were pushing yourself against a dirty blond with baby breath eyes, your hands doing things to her you did to me, your hazel green eyes suggesting what you suggested to me those many days ago.
I didn't know I was falling until my face met the floor and everyone stopped to stare at the drunken girl with the russet hair lying in a heaped mess.
Not even your eyes apologized to me as I packed my bag. My heart fighting to cut the strings your hands tied securely to it.
Your mouth didn't even mutter whispers of goodbyes or an invitation to drive me home in your bomb.
I trudged home in the howling rain. And met mamma on the sidewalk where she told me not to waste tears on your types.