I’m sick of this chapter.
I’m sick of science fiction and horror and fables.
I should be able to choose my own genre.
Fantasy.
It doesn’t really work that way.

When someone writes a poem. The poem exists. It doesn’t have a choice.
It has to be read. It has to be printed. It has to be spoken.
Forever.
Until the day the author removes it from the shelf and the binding goes stale.

I was the kid in 3rd grade who would skip to the end of the book to see if the rest was worth reading.
I am that kid.
And I am sick of reading.