"I hate when you tell me you love me."
"I love you."
"Do you love her?"
"That old bag making sounds like a death rattle?"
"Yeah, her."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Can't you just accept that I love you and move on?"
"Not unless you tell me why you can't love her, too."
"Because I love you, you're special to me."
"She should be special to you, too."
"I don't know her. She's nothing to me."
"She should be everything to you."
"Why? How can I love her?"
"Look. How can we love some people but not others? How can you love me but not the old woman sitting next to you on the city bus, breathing like city smoke and wringing her hands? I writing my hands my hands, too."
"You're not like her. You're not like anyone else."
"You're making yourself look stupid. I'm the exact same as everyone else. We're all so similar. I mean, we're ninety-nine percent the same as any given person on this planet on a genetic level. We're all combinations of the same handful of characteristics, inside and out. You shouldn't love me over anybody else."
"Would you like me to stop loving you?"
"I want you to love me very much. So much, it hurts. So much, I'm telling you everything I can that might make you realize I'm nothing special, and I can never be enough for you. Because then I'd known I've done everything in my power to sacrifice myself, so,e extraneous martyr, some fucked-up masochist, and if you still love me, then maybe I'd finally deserve it."
"And then I could love you and never hurt you and never need anything or anyone else. Sweetheart, this is real life. Things aren't that simple; but wouldn't it be lovely if it worked that way?"
