Killing Your Darlings

Kill your darlings, they said. Your work will improve, they said.

But when you kill us, do we not bleed? Do we not feel? Does our memory not haunt you?

No?

Then we must make you remember, must make you regret.

May our ink spill from the gash in our backs where your quill once quivered as you crossed us out of existence. May our blood flow blue and black, and may it seep into every book you read and every story you write.

We will take what is ours, reclaim our destiny, and be a part of you.

Forever.