Mariah Holmes | + Follow Poet |
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In the Fashion of Fine Wine

I'm hanging my hat today.
I'm putting away my coat and gloves.
I'm closing my eyes,
I won't be awake anymore.
I don't want to be awake.

What is the point if I'm outside,
Looking in on what was once my life?
When all I had I lost,
Or all I thought I knew,
I just have a memory of a less cold time,
It's not even real, I warped the view.

Alas, you can't hear me now.
You are dancing in the shadows right where I can barely see you,
Right where you're just out of reach,
You are just enough to torture me.
This silhouette of mine will resign,
And you won't see me anymore.

I'm fading effortlessly like the night into daytime.
I'm evaporating in the fashion of fine wine.
You scratch the surface like you always do,
But this time you are too late.

I'm not weak, it's just rough.
You're no king if I'm the peasant.
You never saw me like I intended,
You won't even remember to thank me once this all has ended.

I'm the beat up antique in a modern-day collection,
I'm the sore, throbbing thumb that's not green in your garden.
I've never been perfect,
Never your Savior,
You never needed me,
I never walked on water.
Endings should be something you savor,
Please my dear, do, because I am doing you a favor.

I have read the verses countless times,
While you adorn yourself with extasy,
They were only thrifty devices to stay alive,
To keep you sane and breathing,
But I caught my foot on the rug going out the door and I couldn't save you,
You stepped right over me,
I become a mark on the floorboards and nothing else to you.

You're tattered but at the same time perfect,
And we both know that I'm worthless,
So let me step aside,
Let this course ride,
No one will dare cry,
It's justified.
Suicide is not a crime.

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