And for the first time,
I consider telling someone the truth.
Maybe ‘cause he's different,
tonight’s different.
Or maybe ‘cause I know that this'll soon end,
and I'll never see him again.
“I don’t talk about this,” I warn,
‘cause it’s true,
‘cause it makes me feel pitiful, weak.
“I’m not credited. For any of it.”
My eyes are on him,
but I’m not looking at him.
My mind’s passing through all the years of walking out of Soundwave with that sick feeling in my stomach.
“Every song I’ve ever created says it’s written by someone else.”
His brows pinch together. “Ghostwriter?”
“No. Industry politics, label interference…”
He sits up, arm over one knee,
palm open like—what the fuck?
“It’s a sore subject and a long story,” I insist,
trying exit the subject and leave it at that.
What I keep under lock and key is the part about Raymond,
about the manipulation,
the control,
the way he built a system
where he's the gatekeeper and I'm the product.
How this was never about credits,
but about ownership,
about stealing my voice,
then convincing me it was never mine to begin with. And by the time I realized what he was doing,
it was too late.
