We

We are alone in this world. We are one person in a sea of many. We can pretend to be better, or worse, but at night we must go home to ourselves.

We must be able to face ourselves.

I might not like what I see in the mirror, but I can look, I must be able to look her in the eye. To truly know her. I must know her. Know that she is me and I am her, and we are this, everyday. Always and forever. In war paint or not. Enrobed or not. Bejewelled or not. With others or not. Elevated or not. Beat down or not. I am the same, that same person, and the only thing that I will ever ask of her, of me, is that she do what is right and fitting of us, and us alone.

She must not let us down. Must not waver. Must not break. We are here together, her and me, and you will never change that. You can never break us. You can catch her eye. You can tell her stories. You can fill her head with all sorts of ideas, and promises, hopes, desires. But we both know the truth: You are not permanent. You are something we invite in, that we can escort out. That we make a choice to interact with, and then make a choice to do away with. You are fiction. At times tangible, but always always an idea of a person. For nothing is as real, as permanent as us. Her and me. me.

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