Page 555 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I haven’t moved,

my fingers gripping the glass neck tight.

The guy behind the counter is staring at me, waiting. “You good?”

My heart's slamming pissed, the only hot thing happening under my skin.

It wasn’t real. None of it was real.

“Yeah,” I breathe, my chest heaving.

He repeats the total, having no clue that I just rode his face in my head.

I pay, swipe the bottle and smokes off the counter, walk out without looking back.

// 10:47 PM //

By the time the bottle’s half gone,

my blood’s flowing happy.

I’m slouched in the stiff chair, legs kicked up on the table, taking another swig of gasoline straight from the bottle. The motel window is cracked open, letting the smoke escape into the cold.

It swirls lazy as it slips up into the sky, never knowing what it’s like to feel trapped.

With my eyes on the moon,

I lift the cig to my lips⁠—

the third one tasting better than the first.

People get so romantic about the moon.

Steal moonlight kisses.

Stupidly whisper moonlit

I-think-I-love-yous.

Write songs and poems about it.

Cry under it.

Pray under it.

Fuck under it.

But the moon’s just a rock,

cold, white, dead,

a corpse floating in a graveyard sky,

not giving a fuck about anyone.

I reach for my phone.

Just to hold it, I swear.