written by: Holly Michaels
They called it a half-hearted attempt,
because they did not understand the art
I tried death on for size
like a designer sweater,
admired his soft touch against my skin,
admired the way he bunched up around my middle.
I wore him,
like a runway model,
allowed everyone to see
that I could sport the latest trend
as well as them.
And so I window-shopped my mortality,
trying to find the perfect cut,
the perfect shade
for mourner’s dismay.
I preferred the emerald green.
I liked the way it fit me,
knowing that buyer’s remorse would not come
Not for me,
for one who knows the neck, the sleeves,
one who knows
what it is like to fall in love
with the thick darkness.
They called this a half-hearted attempt,
but check out comes
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Help is out there: http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html