Page 18 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

and he doesn’t stop in time.

Boom—he’s gone for good.

And then I’m at another funeral,

crying-shouting into a casket

that can’t cry-shout back,

him not breathing into my skin,

then standing at another grave,

this one with his name on it.

Andrew Joseph Harding.

I can’t do it. I can’t wake up with him on top of me—chest to chest, alive and breathing—and then one day, he’s… not.

I hate this part of me that destroys everything. The part that sees ghosts where there’s still breath and warm blood. Because now here it comes: panic climbs up inside me, digging behind my eyes.

My chest locks up,

and if I let this exhale go, I’ll cry.

So I hold it inside me tight.

Until my lungs start screaming.

Heat hits my face.

My stomach floats with butterfly wings made of blades. I glance at the open bedroom door.

I picture running,

picture leaving.

I want to move.

I want to stay.

I want him gone.

I want him closer.

I want to disappear.

I’m still holding my breath.

I have to decide⁠—

breathe and cry,

or suffocate and die.

And the second I pick life,

the tears rip out of me,