Page 140 of Cherry Beats

You’d be good here.

Your smart mouth would sort them all out—keep them focused. You could be the Sharon Osbourne of our tour, only sexier. Not that I wouldn’t bang Shazza.

I miss your tits in the palm of my hands.

That leather-clad arse.

Your pretty green eyes.

Dammit, Cherry.

You make me want to come home.

Presley.

Cherry,

They tell me I’m the king, just like you predicted.

You’d hate me now, like this. Fucking hate me.

Kinda hate me, too.

It’s been two years, and you’re not going away.

I thought I had stuff to say today because I’m melancholy, but now I’m writing, I feel like clamming up again.

Two years. That’s all I had to say. Has it really been that long?

Presley.

Cherry,

The Burden.

That’s gonna be the next song I write.

I keep waiting for someone to replace you, but they’re all hollow and empty. It drives me insane. They look decent on the outside, but inside they’re dead.

Tell me to stop, and I swear I’ll stop, but your silence gives me hope that at least one person is willing to listen to Presley the man without knowing Presley the king.

Presley.

P.S. I still hear your voice in my ear and the sounds you made when you came over and over again.

Cherry,

I’m sick today. They’ve locked me away and told me I’ve got twenty-four hours to get myself better. Julia doesn’t fucking mess around. I’d tell her to suck my dick, but I’m scared she’d bite it off.

I’m tired.

Alcohol is like toothpaste or deodorant now, just something I need to use daily. Some days I skip the deodorant and just sweat whiskey.

Worthless.

Worthless and adored.

Irony.

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