I hate how he’s standing inside my mind,
smirking as if he's got no place better to be.
I mouth the next line under my breath,
testing it,
forcing it into shape,
but the syllables fall limp, the flow dies quick.
I'm the problem,
as if I got my own hand around my throat,
and the only way through
is to stop lying to myself.
Buzz.
My pen stalls in my hand.
My phone’s face-down on the rug.
Ignore it.
But it could be him.
It’s probably not him.
I sigh,
hating how quick he owns my first thought.
I grab it
and flip it over,
my heart on her knees,
praying before seeing the screen.
Eli Stone
I know you’re not the one signing the checks, but damn. Can you at least tell me what’s going on? It’s been weeks. No payment or answers. It’s the same old “we’re working on it” from Raymond and the label.
My rent’s due, my band’s waiting, my team’s pissed. We did our part. We recorded the tracks and gave them exactly what they asked for.
Pretty crazy I gotta chase down money for my own music.
I know you can’t fix this. But can you at least try to get some answers?
I read the message twice.
As if the letters will change,
turning into a problem I can fix.
