Bad Fiction

I was born on page 93
Parent-less, rootless, friendless, nameless
My life began from that end of the street
and ended on page 94
When I serendipitously encountered a passed-by bullet
for the protagonist
My bloodied sleeves drew a rainbow in the air
as I fell, but the clouds hadn’t paid attention

My dreams were never mentioned
nor was my origin story cared
I was reborn on page 197 but nobody noticed
Another passerby rescued and instantly disposed
Would you still think of me after closing the book,
if I never tell of my failures ever again
or insist that my namelessness had a purpose, solely
to build you a hero?

Would you close the book painfully
like closing the lids on a mirror,
then come alive on the back cover
and live a very different story?

 

2019.05

(中文原诗:《烂小说》

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