Next to it’s a platinum award forBehind Closed Ribs,
my first song. My favorite.
My blood on a piano?—
no longer mine, credit stripped.
None of them belong to me anymore.
Maybe they never did.
I stare at the awards anyway
and pretend it’s funny,
and that I don't want to tear them off the fucking wall and throw them through the window.
Maybe I’m not a songwriter.
I’m the thing songs crawl through to reach the ears they were meant for.
A portal.
A body the music uses to make their way out.
Before someone else gives them a name,
signs their initials, takes the bow.
This is how I get by,
telling myself the songs were never mine.
Credit doesn’t matter.
Ownership is ego.
Art is supposed to hurt.
But fuck?—
I’m nothing if not a ghost in this building.
Raymond cocks his head. “Huh. Can’t lie—that one surprises me. Brandon…” He taps his knuckle on the desk. “Always figured he’d be the last one standing.”
Hence one of the reasons I made the contract.
Even the ones who say they love you
still fucking leave.
Before I open my mouth,
Ronnie limps in, head of Public Relations,
with a cane in hand after wrecking his bike a few months back.
His suit hangs loose,
