TW: suicidal ideation
A Noose hung low and lonely,
suspended like a ring finger mockingly flaunting its absent band of devotion -- broken.The loop glowed and gleamed speciously just as the fake gold once had and still did,
but now from the comfort and safety of a trash can.Eyes dulled umber and staring directly into gravestone grey,
you stood up from the bed in pursuit of something more comfortable than the constant
throb of melatonin swimming through your skin --numbing like novocaine to a warm corpse.
Letters lay arranged primly and properly on the bureau like dolls in a dollhouse --
purely for aesthetic purposes and lacking any soul to them other than the frilly
meaninglessnesses decorating their even more so meaningless faces.They bore no shame or guilt or reluctance:
memory and what looked like regret rocked your being, ripping everything on the inside
apart while leaving the delicate exterior too perfectly intact.Hope?
You approached the Noose in silent appreciation,
memorizing Its beauty as if it would be the last thing you’d ever see
As if Its thready finger daintily choking you would be the last you’d ever feel
As if the elicited wheezes of life prancing out from conflict would be the last you'd ever hear
As if the sickly sweet fragrance of vomit and sweat would be the last things you’d ever smell
As if the taste of iron dulling your mouth in ravishing red would be the last thing you’d ever taste
As if...You stood up and onto the chair --
its legs wobbling under the discomfort of your trouble’s weight --
and the Noose opened for you,hugged you,
in ways rings never could.
The tightening cord did not ask for things you could not give, It simply asked for your
conscience and offered you rest, unrest unlike anything you’d ever
or tasted before.It asked,
and you gave.
The chair gave way.
You leapt in faith and quietly fell further into your skin,
further into the floor,
and further into sleep…
And yet you felt free,
in the loving comfort of the True ring hugging the pain and emotion and hurt and love
and burden and responsibility and memory out of you -- ‘till Death did Them part.Your eyes rolled back in cathartic pleasure and you were released to feel for once, and
then never again.But,
you look back at
It’d always be your dream. the cheshire grin of a
it’d been a dream. scrawny little
you wake up, disappointed: child with a curly
of silver as his mother. Devil’s lock and
a tongue the same shade