Page 8 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He hoped it was. Never fuckin’ wanted it.

Then it just kept comin’—boot to ribs, knuckles to the already split brow, fist to temple. Andrew closed his eyes and thought about the water, about floatin’ face-down in the river. How peaceful it would be to finally get some fuckin’ sleep.

By the time his spine hit concrete, he was gaspin’.

Above, they circled, but he kept lookin’ past them.

At the stars.

And fireworks over the Hudson.

Blue. Then red.

Then nothin’.

35 / CRY

CIGARETTES AFTER SEX

// ALLISON - NOV 29, 10:29 PM - STATEN ISLAND, NY //

Raymond used to say my best love songs came from violent-sad intersections. Where I’m lashing out, crying, screaming please love me underneath it.

“Violent-sad, baby. Do one more for me.”

He’d grin when he'd say it, too.

He liked believing he was the only one who knew where the vein was.

The one who had access to cut it open.

The one with the power to make it cry.

The rest of the world thought writing love songs was just me riding shotgun with Love drunk behind the wheel, Rage and Grief in the backseat—making out, fucking, fighting, smoking weed, Swift or Sheeran playing loud enough to drown out the sound of the rain slashing the windshield.

Nah, the way I love is much more sick and sinister.

And this, Raymond always knew.

For me, Love’s a loaded gun in my own hand, pointed at my own head.

Safety off, cocked, finger on the trigger,

barrel digging into my temple,

bracing and begging not to die.

But before anyone else can pull the trigger, I do it myself.

A bullet into my skull to beat them to it.

That’s my sad truth.

The only way I know how to love is by waiting to get shot.

Then hurting myself before they can.

Bracing. Betrayal. Begging. Barrel.