A trail forms from the pieces of me crumbling off as I go;
I apologize for the mess, what it is and that it's left behind.
There should be no denial nor delay in this acceptance:
I will never become better than I am, all I can do now is decay.

To describe my life in sound: one sustained and deep note;
the growling hum of an obnoxious instrument too difficult to play;
the master of this song silently regretting his years spent,
wishing he weren't so **** in love with the melody.

To see through my eyes might convince you I am blind,
selfishly I stare inward and pretend that nothing is there,
unwilling to let even the faintest glow into this empty space
in fear of what might be waiting in the dark.

To touch with my lips or fingertips, you might find too delicate,
afraid that you or what you gently caress could come apart,
never again to have the warm, silken texture of that privileged trust,
licking wounds that will nurse into rough, unfeeling callus or callous.

To know me is to know the thin shroud of half-truth and fantasy,
the shimmer of glitter and a fake smile, its age in cracking paint;
my costume now faded and stiff, my dance now only a shuffle and turn;
no longer what I pretended to be, unable to remember what I was.

I will never be better than what I became; all I can do now is decay;
for all that I was given, and all that I acknowledge: this I accept.
I apologize for the mess that I will become and leave behind;
a trail ends as the final piece crumbles from me, and I am gone.