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My reflection, dirty mirror, there's no connection to myself/
You didn't mean it, doesn't he get that? You didn't, don't mean any of it. The posing, in pictures and interviews, everything on camera, in print, it means nothing. You say a million words a day and mean just three, those words you whisper to him when you're alone. Everything else about and around you is just ephemeral wool and wealth. Means nothing.
You don't understand why you need it, so there's no way to explain it to him. You think he shouldn't need explanations, because doesn't he need it too? A part of you thinks that you and he are the same, and a part of you recognizes that you're very, very different.
The same. Not the same.
They're both true.
Because doesn't he love the stage? Doesn't he love the music and the fame? Doesn't he tremble after a show, come so hard he screams, riding high on the aftermath of mass adoration? Just like you, he's just like you.
But then, he would never say those things. He would never do what you do. Sell his body and sell his face, sell his voice, but never his soul. Doesn't barter his heart and trade his veins by the ounce, pushing his thumb against the bottom of the scale, trying to suck harder on the thing draining him. Not like you, he's not like you.
"I don't even know who you are anymore," He tells you, and that heats the sadness coursing through you, boils it into anger.
Because he just wants to make himself feel better, saying that. Wants to convince himself he could never have loved you and known what you are. You won't let him do that. Not when there's no way you can do it, too. "Don't lie to yourself," And you're talking to him, and you're talking to yourself. And he's just like you. "You've always known who I am. And you love me. Or maybe you hate me now, but you did love me. Don't pretend you're some innocent little boy I tricked into caring for some terrible monster."
He doesn't deny it, doesn't fight back. "I still love you," He says. And he's not like you.
"Then what the hell are you doing? You can't love me and just leave." You want to reach out and grab him, but you don't. Because he can, and maybe it's better.
"We're just fooling ourselves, don't you see that?" Everything about him is so fragile, his voice and eyes and smile. You could break him; it seems, with the crush of one hand. You are breaking him, have been, and you realize that's why this is happening.
But you can't let it go that easy. Have to at least try, so you can tell yourself later, when you're missing him: I tried, I tried. and make him the Bad Guy. "I didn't…I don't mean it." With him it's like this: droplets to share oceans, a single breath to share the wind. He knows what you're saying, however you say it.
And you know he means it when he tells you, "It doesn't matter."
You blame yourself for what you can't ignore/