She isn't perfect, and he's known that from the start. But what he doesn't understand is how a girl like her who loves to dance in the rain and giggle and go cloud watching and hug him and surf on the highest waves even if she falls just to get the thrill of it all can't be perfect and have perfection. How can she not be perfect? She is perfect, of course she is. She has to be perfect; she has to. There really isn't any way out of the questions without this being the answer. She's perfect. She simply has to be perfect.
Breathe.
She isn't perfect, and she's always known that from the start. She may like to dance in the rain and giggle and go cloud watching and hug him and surf on the highest wave even if she falls just to get the thrill of it because that's really all life is to her. She wants to feel the thrill of life, and that's what she's doing. She can't be perfect. She enjoys making him fall in love with her, knowing that she's just going to crush him in the end. She likes the feeling of power she gets whenever he smiles in that puppy lovesick way in her direction. She loves stringing her prey along for the ride of their lives if only to get in preparation to count how many tears fall from their eyes. She likes knowing that she's in control, even if he doesn't know it. How could she be perfect? She isn't perfect, of course she isn't. She can't be perfect (not with this strong and empowered feeling taking over the way she lives her life); she can't be perfect (no matter what anyone says about her, she can't give up her façade to show the world that she's a ruthless person who feeds on the power of control). There isn't any way out of the question without this being the answer. She simply cannot be perfect. (Never has been, never will be.)
Breathe.
She isn't perfect, and now he knows that. So what if she likes to dance in the rain and do all of that other stuff? She also likes to drag people into her traps. She likes to feed off of their love for her. That's right, he loved her. He fell for that sickeningly sweet act she put on to fool all of them. He fell hard and didn't even plan on recovering from that fall (why would he have to? he had her) but now he has to. He can't give her the satisfaction of knowing that she's crushed him like a bug. How could she be perfect? She isn't, she'll never be. He knows that now. He realizes this after he's fallen for the act with hook, line, and sinker. He only wants to know how. How could this person break down his walls only to play him like a fine tuned piano when so many others had much nobler reasons and failed miserably? Whatever the reason is, the answer remains the same. She isn't perfect and she simply can't act it anymore.
Breathe.
He's wrong. She can act perfect all she wants to. The only change is he doesn't believe her anymore. He has told her this and she scoffed. He has to believe it; he simply has to fucking believe it, believe it, just fucking believe her and this little lie she's worked so hard on. (If only because it's the only thing making Hollywood seem real anymore.) She spends hours in front of the mirror trying on smiles for size. None of them fit quite right. (Little did she realize that she hadn't even bothered to try out her own smile on herself – she thought that if it was in her to start with, it can obviously be improved upon.) (Look who can't play their part right now?) She shrugs it off and puts on the one that seems best and goes out to show the world she's perfect and this isn't some game that she likes playing to gain control and power over people. (Even though it really is.) Because the people need to believe it, they need to see that she is absolutely perfect in any and every single fucking way and there's no way that she could ever be wrong about anything and that Chad Dylan Cooper is lying to them because she's perfect, she really is!
Breathe.
She's forgotten how to tell the truth it seems. (The lies are so comfortable and so pretty to look at and believe. Who doesn't love pretty in a world full of ugly? Everyone loves pretty. Everyone loves lies.)
Breathe.
She has to be perfect because she just needs to be perfect. It's in her blood now, crawling through her skin reminding her with every sing step she takes that she has a need to be perfect, stay perfect, achieve perfection in Hollywood where the impossible is always possible. If she isn't perfect, then what is she? She's nothing without her comfortable set of lies that are just the right size for her smile that's too big and too imposing for others. She's absolutely nothing without them. She doesn't have a claim to fame without being perfect. She's always been perfect, why isn't she still perfect, damn it? Why did she actually care? She doesn't have the answers so she goes to back to her beautiful masqueraded world where everything and everyone wears a mask and nothing is what it seems. She needs a break from this painfully honest world whose only goal is to break her perfection. Because she is perfect. She has to be perfect; she has to be. There's no other way out of this life where she isn't perfect in every single way that America and Hollywood want her to be. She has to be perfect, she just has to be. She can't not be perfect; she's so used to the perfection and the charade is well kept up when she pays attention but her world of masquerade masks and balls with its pretty intricate lies is slipping because she hasn't bothered to keep up the façade. How can she not be perfect? She has to be; she has to be perfect. She simply has to be perfect or everything that she's worked for is all for absolutely nothing.
Breathe.
He's scared by her desperate need to be perfect. He's frightened by that way she smiles like she isn't quite sure if it's the right way or not. And he absolutely hates the way she's trying to keep her spot in Hollywood by clawing everyone else from the top spot down. He doesn't want it to happen, but it is. It really is happening to her – the girl who he thought was perfect and then realized that she never was. He knows that her life is an act. A balancing act where if she keeps up and wins, the prize is absolute perfection. The smoke and mirrors make it seems like perfection, but its death. It's dying and he wants her to know that he doesn't want his imperfect perfection to die from the suffocation of artificial perfection when she has the real thing like so many others before her. But he can't get past the thought that it's all just a bad dream and he'll wake up with his imperfect perfection right by his side, back to the perfect imperfection that she truly is. He doesn't wake up from the nightmare and that scares him more than it should. But he's an actor – he can lie – he really can, just listen to those words that flow out his lips that seem so comforting and relaxing. Doesn't that feel relaxing? Of course it does, he gets paid for it. – he should be good at it. No matter what he says, it doesn't change the fact that she's still clawing for the black and white fill of imperfection and perfection. She doesn't want the white, the normal, the imperfection. She wants the black, the above average, the perfection that everyone stops to watch and look at. He's scared by her need for this so called perfection, but doesn't say anything. He couldn't help her if he tried. (He hasn't though. He just wants to do nothing and let it all go back to the way it was.)
Breathe.
She doesn't want to be helped. If she's perfect (she is, she is, she is fucking perfect), then she doesn't need help to be perfect. (She doesn't need help to be perfect because she's already there. She's already perfect. She'll always be perfect and those who tell her she's crazy are dirty little liars who are jealous of her obvious perfection.) Look at her. Do you see those perfect eyes? Do you see that perfect face? That perfect mouth? Those perfect cheeks? That perfect neck? Those perfect hands? That perfect body? Of course you do because if you're looking at her how can you not see her perfection surrounded by a larger than life smile and those comfortable lies that everyone believes? It's simply not possible. (But it's Hollywood, land of where impossible meets possible.) She's perfection and she's perfect and everyone fucking believes her because if they don't than she isn't perfect (she is, she is, she really is perfect) and not being perfect means that she is just like every other imperfect person on this planet. And that means that she is average. She can't be average. (She simply can't be average; it's impossible.) Look at her, damn it! How can she be average when she's perfect? Of course she's perfect, you fool. She's perfect; she is fucking perfect in each and every way and there is absolutely nothing that anyone can do about it because perfection can't be ruined! Perfection can't be ruined. She's perfection. She can't be ruined, she just can't be. How the hell could she be perfect and ruined? It isn't possible; it simply isn't possible. If all of those people would just stop making her doubt the obvious perfection that is her than she would be so much better off. (There's something nagging her about how true perfection doesn't doubt itself though. She ignores it because she's perfect, she's perfect, she's fucking perfect and she just wants to know why people can think that she isn't perfect.) She doesn't need those people who refuse to see perfection. She needs her admirers, her fans, those who know and trust that she really is truly perfect, just like she's always known (and he's never forgotten). She's perfect, and she hates those who tell her all of those lies about her not being the very definition of perfection like she really is.
Breathe.
Hollywood is a total fake and so is she (he knows it) even though neither will admit it. He's just trying to survive the rumors and lies that she loves too much to even consider the truth anymore. His form of oxygen is honesty (what a hypocrite) and he's been running out of it for a while.
Breathe.
She's fine with being who she is. She's fine with being perfect (because that's what she is; she's fucking perfect and everyone believes her) and she doesn't care about those jealous people who try to tell her that she's not. She knows that she is perfect and that's what matters (but she doesn't mind all of those legions of fans who rush to remind her of how utterly perfect she really and truly is). She isn't hiding behind smoke and mirrors with glitz and glamour set up to distract people (did it work?) and she most certainly is not in denial about anything because that would be unprofessional of someone who is a professional at being perfect. Her form of oxygen is lies and she's running out of room to spread her lies right now and therefore she's running out of her own person brand of oxygen which is also her personal brand of heroin (and believe it or not, she can't really remember who the dealer was in the first place).
Breathe.
These lies are swallowing her up whole, he realizes. She isn't perfect and as much she believes it (or not, because he can't really tell because she's always wearing that smile that never lets anyone assume anything) she'll never really be perfect until she admits that she's not perfect. It's a paradox and he knows it but he can't explain it to her (not when he can barely wrap his one mind around it in the first place). He likes to take on the attitude that she doesn't need saving, that she'll be fine on her own, that he doesn't to fix anything about her because eventually (not to mention hopefully) she'll figure something out all on her own (and without his help). He knows that this attitude isn't helping anything (it's certainly not helping her) but it's something that he's always done. He doesn't like taking the part before it's assigned and he hasn't gotten the casting list back from this feature film yet. As he ponders this, he notices that his supply of oxygen (a limited one at that) is running out.
Breathe.
She's suffocating from her wonderful, beautiful lies that she knows aren't lies at all because she's perfect and she isn't lying because would a perfect person lie about them being perfect? No. But then again, an imperfect person would lie about being perfect, so she forgets all about it. They aren't lies. She's telling the truth, she really is perfect. She really is perfect; she's perfect; she fucking perfect. She absolutely perfect because there isn't any other way out of this hell hole she calls a life (and please just believe her when she says she's checked).
Breathe.
Neither notices that when they run out oxygen, their last thoughts are of truths and lies.
She's perfect, she's perfect, she's fucking perfect and everyone believes it.
She isn't perfect, she'll never be perfect, but no one believes it.
In the race of life, who is the true winner?