Page 375 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

When I reach my bedroom,

light spills from the TV screen,

shattering over the walls,

the ceiling,

the edge of the bed…

And Andrew’s face,

illuminating him in a kaleidoscope

of mafia-neon.

He’s sitting up in my bed,

still in his clothes from the event,

shirt unbuttoned halfway,

wrinkled, belt gone,

dress shoes kicked off

on the floor next to him,

one ankle crossed over the other,

watching Goodfellas

with the volume turned low.

Jersey boy heartbreak cinema.

The screen lights up his face in stained glass strips as he looks at me—cheekbone, lips, jaw, the tired under his eyes—making a church window out of a man seconds from falling to his knees,

exhausted by me…

like staying hurts…

like leaving hurts worse… like⁠—

I’m the knife he keeps walking into.

Still, he keeps walking my way anyway.

Mr. Fuck-You remains, tragically, unfuckoffable.

Only idiot bigger than him is me.

The girl who can’t even keep him

without dismembering him first.

He doesn’t say anything.

I don’t say anything.