I really don't get you sometimes. This sick game we play that makes no sense. It's like you make light of the lies we've told and the secrets we keep with each other. We flaunt them like battle wounds; I'll show you mine, you show me yours. You want to know absolutely everything about me, like it's your job to collect these pieces of my life that I have tried so hard to hide. You make me admit to all of the lies I've ever told, and every secret I've ever kept. You make it your duty to coax them out of me. I do the same to you, we play this game over and over and each time the secrets get worse and worse, but I will always have a piece of you and you of me.