We both want to point fingers. We refuse to take blame. We adamantly deny it. And in this sense, we are both the same.

But there are motions in our sickness
   (Or rather sickness in our motions)
Indecent murmurs of our shame
But the murmurs stay just murmurs so we can play our little game.

Of facade.
Of charade.
Of telephone lines.
Razor blades.

Emotion.
Commotion.