Here’s what I know. I know this is not you. This is not even any of your second selves.

I go along with the charade a lot. Especially when it’s all around me 24/7, and I am only one person. But I am not Audrey Hepburn, and I sure as hell am not anything like Cary Grant.

You are not an Internet Cutie Pie.

You are hiding behind your bullshit.

It is killing you.

The last time you tried to kill yourself, it was like this bigger than reality will allow big bang, big hurry, big surprise that was anything but a surprise, big breakdown, big noise, ambulance middle of the night, a neon sign that blinked on and off to the rest of the world that some human being had fallen and that human being was you. I did not know if you could be fixed.

Who do you think cleaned up your blood and vomit.

You’d be wrong to assume it was me. But no.

I have cleaned up enough blood and vomit for twenty lifetimes. Blood and vomit mean nothing to me.

The person who cleaned up your blood and vomit was the young man you told the world was your lover.

You left him devastated and lost in grief. He had not seen it coming.

Exactly how could he have.

I have suggested that what he is feeling is anger. He is angry at you.

It is so not not not easy being angry with you. You do not allow it.

You overwhelm those of us who love you with your laughter, your abandon, your dancing, your jokes, your sarcasm, your beauty that is very studied and not the spontaneous phenomenon that you think we think, your Puck to our midsummer nights in the village of the milk. Our Oberon to your many arrows.

You have become the performance you have always employed and it has finally rendered you as good as dead.

You are the dead. The putrid dead. The Cute Little Boy dead. The dead dead. Your charade of so many characters has caved in and death was – and I agree – the only way out.

If you want to go then fucking go, boy. But you do NOT NOT NOT have the right to take him with you.

You will say that I am defending someone who is so strong he does not need defending. You never did get people well. You can’t even get yourself.

You have no cocksucking idea what strong means. He has endured you. That is what strong means. It is a long-term ideology. It is not a big bang of anything. Big bang is your modus operandi. His is far more careful than anything you could know.

God knows you’re cute and pretty. But it doesn’t last long, and the people around you are smart because they’ve been there, they get it, and they comprehend that cute and pretty is worth one vacuum or another.

You are running out of time. I want you to turn around and look closely at the room behind you in this video you made. It’s a mess. But it’s our mess. Our shoes, backpacks, coats, laundry, a set of skis, a camping tent, and a chaos that belongs to us. US. Like you belong to us now and there it is.

Dude, we have your back. You just don’t want to hear it.

The kid you were killing was the one who was abused. Sexually abused by people who should have loved you. I am sorry they hurt you so very badly.

But you wanted him – the you of you – gone, and you wanted to be noticed.

Because the being noticed part is what you do. How is the being noticed of the old you – the one you executed – any different from the current self who is getting noticed for all the things the first version of your many selves  performed as perfectly as a prince.

Every kid I have ever known to be promiscuous, and this includes me because I invented it, was also abused, and abused, and abused. Every last one. Of US. US. Get it through your head that this is about US. Not just you.

Sex is validation. Even the sex you are having with us in this video. For you, seduction is a ritual, and like most rituals of most human beings, this one doesn’t mean a damn thing.

The validation comes with a sardonic irony. It is not love. It is fear disguised as attractiveness.

You are fucking with the wrong audience.

We do not and cannot buy it for a minute.

That you are choosing to fuck with the wrong audience is what could save you.

We are the ones who are equipped to love you without necessarily loving the seduction you so exude every fucking minute of the day.

I’m sorry. But there is nothing you can do to make us unlove you just because you know in your bleeding bowels that you are a piece of shit.

Maybe. Maybe you are. But how is that something we are supposed to throw away like a chicken bone.

This video speaks to me. It says you are OUR mess. OUR history. OUR chicken bone. OUR oxy. OUR sleeping death. OUR midsummer night’s dream. OUR Puck. OUR whore in the electric mist. OUR responsibility. This is where the rubber meets the road, and the self-expression of the individual gives way to the integrity of the group.

We will not allow you to seduce the boy who has invested so much of himself in you, not because it is a bad investment, but because there is no light, much less an investment, at the end of that tunnel. We can turn him around because we have the power and the ability to do it. We have his back, and he knows that, too.

What we see in you is us.

I strongly suggest that you turn around as well, and begin the process of cleaning up that room behind you.