Page 548 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

It’s what I usually would’ve done.

Say I didn’t mean it, that it slipped out.

Say, Jesus Christ, Andrew, relax,

I was getting fucked against a wall on New Year’s.

People say dumb shit when the ball drops all the time.

Save us both the embarrassment.

But that was the first time those words ever came out of my mouth. The first time I’ve felt this way about anyone.

And fuck—he was inside me.

I told him that, while he was inside me.

And no matter how bad it hurt to stand there, how stupid it felt with vomit on my chin, my dress half-fixed,

my panties in his pocket,

my heart dying between us,

twitching on the ground,

vultures circling around,

I wasn’t taking it back.

I told him I love him.

First time I felt it for a man,

first time I was brave enough to say it.

I wasn’t taking that away from myself.

But after eight years of grief and fear, three hundred songs in my writing studio,

three months,

two cities,

and one boy,

all that I've learned on the other side of it is this: to be the one loved by me is to be the weapon. To love him is to be the wound.

I roll over and search for my phone. My body feels heavy, stiff, and a hundred years old. I need weed.

Or, like, painkillers.

My screen glows in the dark,

but everything blurs together,

timestamps stacking

on top of each other.