“They’re dead kids that live, because no ones deader than the author.”
They’re killing me. I am
dead in a ditch somewhere–sobbing over
kids who were never meant to grow up. Why is it
that my favorites always die and
live again? Am I obsessed with risen-from-the-dead-kids
because they come back wrong? Because
no one avenged or checked in on their grave.
Ones that cry out for someone to see they’re not
deader than dirt. That the author is no more
than a hack who can’t write happy endings for
the kids that fight for them. So the
author kills off the problem child, who rises again, but wrong.