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.