I thought I'd killed my darlings, 
But then they turned up breathing.  
All petal pink lungs and teeth-out smiles. 
  
I thought there might be headstones, 
But instead just rows of photos. 
All warm and quiet people, passing silent time. 

I thought I'd been done dreaming, 
But at night I wrote new stories. 
Without permission from the people I had risen from the dead. 

I thought I'd killed my darlings, 
But turns out I was the dead one. 
All stiff skin, cold fingers, and strangely stand-still time.