The hero sleeps through his own origin story. 

You’ll find him in fields of endless wheat, dreaming 

of destiny. He can be anything, anything at all: 

adroit, angel-faced deliverer (who carried the blade, 

that fairytale burden, like it was made of pure starlight) OR 

Lovecraft incarnate, teeth aching for something to bite. 

Whatever you want. That’s what he’ll be. 

The hero sits in your hands, sleeps between the pages; 

his killing instinct ever-present, 

his incisors none the wiser.

The hero succeeds. He hangs up his sword 

and puts on a smile: clouds and confetti 

and so much sparkling wine. Happily ever after. 

The book begins closing. Why isn’t he happy? 

He couldn’t save his friends. He couldn’t save anyone. 

He wishes he hadn’t reached the end  

of the story. Each page is blurred with tears. 

The hero succeeds. Again. They’ve hanged him 

like mistletoe, nailed up by the roadside. No amount 

of sweet dreams and absinthe could make this 

a better story. He crashes into a third-act low point, 

plummets past the event horizon. His wings burn through 

your careful saddle stitching. All that’s left: 

an open heart/a gaping wound. Every page 

is torn to ribbons. He doesn’t feel like a hero anymore.

The hero succeeds. He couldn’t save his friends.

You’ll find him in the shade of a graveyard. 

Clouds and confetti and fields of endless wheat. 

What is a story without a hero? The blade joins his body 

like an angel returns to heaven. None of it is real. 

Happily ever after. Happily ever after.

‍ The hero succeeds. It doesn’t mean much. 

You’ll find him hanging off a threshold, his silhouette 

a violent stain against the sunrise. The hero has done this 

thirty-three million, 

five hundred and fifty thousand, 

three hundred and thirty-seven times 

(it’s thirty-eight now). He wishes he could be the hero 

in a different kind of story. Instead, he was carved 

from stone for the pleasure of parting heads from shoulders. 

Happily ever after, etched in blood.

The hero is dying. Dirt lives under his nails, 

and his wounds are full of flies. He cannot stop 

crawling out of his own grave—but how can that be, 

if he’s the one digging it? You’ll find him 

on the wire-thin line of barely sane and deranged. 

Every night, the same dream: clouds and confetti 

and so much viscera. The screaming  

could be written off as dogs.

The hero succeeds. He couldn’t save his friends. 

But couldn’t you save him? He can be anything: 

herald of injury, consumed by ego (made in the image 

of St. Sebastian, full of love and entry wounds) OR 

Khaslana, diaphonized in tragedy. The teeth, the tissue,

the bone marrow, even the sinew that binds it all 

together: every part of him knows your name. 

Whatever you want. That’s what he’ll be.