Page 35 of Dirty Lyrics
That I mean everything I’m saying—even if the words are coming out twisted, broken, not nearly enough. I’ve never been good at this—spilling my heart without a beat or a rhyme to back me up. But for her, I’ll try.
Because I know I don’t deserve her.
I know I fucked up—by letting Matheson run his games, by not fighting harder, by keeping all this ugly shit buried instead of trusting her to handle it with me. I thought I was protecting her, but really, I was protecting myself.
From fear that she’d see me as small.
Weak. Not enough.
But without her? I’m nothing.
So what the fuck do I have to lose by telling her everything now?
“Rico, I don’t think?—”
“No.”
My voice is rougher than I intended, but I can’t stop.
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
I drag in a breath, my chest aching, and force the words out. “Look, I kept shit from you, and I was wrong. But I know you have secrets too.” My voice cracks as I search her eyes. “Maya Gold. Central Park West. A black fucking AMEX tucked in your phone wallet. You’re not just some girl scribbling lyrics in a notebook—you come from money, power, things I don’t know or understand… because you didn’t tell me.”
“Rico, I?—”
But I don’t let her speak. I can’t. I’m so fucking afraid of what she’ll say, of her confirming that maybe I was never enough to begin with, so I push harder.
“And I know I haven’t earned your trust yet, so I can wait for you to tell me your story in your own time. But this—you have to believe me when I say you are it for me, Maya. You are it.”
My throat feels shredded. My voice is gravel, torn raw, and I feel wetness on my face before I even realize I’m crying.
Fuck it.
I have to just let me cry. There’s nothing else to do.
Boys don’t cry is one of those bullshit lies society drilled into us, and it needs to die already.
Because we do.
Real men cry.
We have feelings. We bleed. We break. And if we’re lucky enough to love a woman the way I love Maya, then we owe it to them—and to ourselves—to let it out.
To not choke on it, not bury it, but to own it.
To learn from it.
To love harder because of it.
And right now, I’m working so goddamn hard not to fall apart completely at her feet.
“This here,” I choke, my voice a whisper, “is me laying it all out for you. Every ugly, vulnerable, terrified part of me I’ve been holding back.”
I drag a hand down my face, breathing ragged.
“It’s not much. But it’s everything I’ve got.”
My throat feels tight, my chest burning.
