Newborn

This is the point where the protagonist dies.

On this page. Right here. Right now.

I decree that he will lose his breath, his heart

And everything he ever held up in a mirror

Towards the light.

Here; he ends tonight

In a beam of stars and sky,

Joy will come cascading on down

And he will rise.

And I insist that now he dies.




What will become of the poor heroine?

She loved him, I've alluded to that for the past three hundred and fifty-two pages,

Ofcourse you were aware,

You are smarter than the average reader.

Consumer.

What say you we do with her?

Should she pine?

Should she lay down her armour and weep passionately at his side?

Tell me, do tell me if I'm too Hollywood,

Popular culture calls for a show of feminist hands and voices,

A pitterpatter of difficult choices

That she cannot face alone.

A literature major would have her harsh and hollow,

A raggled hag of a wench of a woman

In years to come of the prime of her life

And nothing to show but love that doth ruin.

You should've studied Anthropology.

Real life isn't like that.

She should end up on the streets, shooting crack and counting the days to the grave,

Waiting, wishing, wanting.

She becomes him.

You lose nothing.




I propose a revolution of sorts.

Tomorrow, she will wake

And take his place.

The challenges are hers alone to face.

Nothing lost, nothing amiss,

No recollection of true love's kiss.

This time, before the clock strikes twelve,

I erase the unnamed from her mind,

In two days, she will walk, unscathed,

The protagonist dead, half decayed.

She never wakes in a cold sweat

Staring blindly, lost in fear,

And nobody asks, "Who here knows the truth?"




Close your eyes and count to four,




There is nothing upon her chamber door.

And Love can't hurt her, anymore.

The End

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