I called the ending to this story, you know.
After all, I am an author derived from you.
The love, then betrayal.  As if I wouldn’t understand it
All on my own.  So I knew what the last page said
Before you read it to me.  And you lied.
You pretend the hard covers keep in your secrets
And hide your past but now even I know better than to be fooled.  
Every movement you make flips the pages
Right back to where we started.  All over again.
Back to the beginning of this section until I know it by heart.  
And I raise the question, how do we end it?  
How do we begin to end it?  We get close with forewords
And bookmarks.  And even closer with anecdotes
And dedications.  But I need more.  No more action novels.  
No more thrillers, romance, sob stories or fantasies.
I need non-fiction.  Real words.  Real feelings.
Real people.

Signed,
The Daughter You’re Losing