Real Hearts

I am not hurt.
How can I claim to be hurt when you didn’t mean anything to me?
I finally let myself trust someone, and you taught me that I didn’t have anything real to give, so what I lost wasn’t real.
I tell myself that, trying to shut out the people saying they understand. They can’t understand. Not me, not what you’ve done to me.
If I was real, if I wasn’t plastered on every magazine cover, maybe you could have hurt me.
I see the sad glances and wonder what it would be like to have a secret, to blend into the background.
Smiling hurts. Brushing my hair hurts. Friends asking me if I want to talk, that hurts me. But not you. You didn’t hurt me.
You must know that by now. I’m not flesh, not blood, not tears.
I remember you told me I was so different, so fresh in a dark world. Said that what was between us was real.
When you left, not long after, you didn’t say much. Or maybe I didn’t hear.
I would have heard you, if I was able to cry, would have begged you to stay, if no one would have heard. The world would have heard me.
So you left, and I smiled. You lived a new, fresh life, and I pretend that I can.
If what was between us wasn’t real, what is? Not me, not anymore.
Which is good, I’m okay, I swear.
Only real hearts feel pain.