Hangups

I can feel the noose tightening, like the hug of a sandpaper friend lost to nostalgia. I can feel the familiar grip, lifting me up while I'm far too weighed down. Welcome back. Hell of a handshake.

It's been awhile since I mounted the gallows. Standing before the crowd, dodging glares and glances with all the skill paranoia has to offer. Hardly the ovation one hopes for. What's the fun in suicide if no one's left to laugh?

Love's nothing but a two-sided trapdoor. Builds you up before it lets you down. Hanging around til you're roped into some new uplifting scheme. You can already see the wood rotting, but it beats an unhinged hole.

It's knot your problem. Knot your neck. Throw away the key. Playing hangman with no vowels, I'm a man of Consonant Sorrow.

Tried by a jury of my mirrors, I'm once again the judge and elocutioner. Blades too barbaric, only good for shaving life off one river at a time. "Fie on your fatalism!" the barbers bellow. "I'll sink before I swim," I sigh.

I find my voice, sitting on the gallows. How quaint. It barely has time to stretch before it's silenced by the string.

No need to weigh me down, for I've no scarcity of stone. No need to play me down, for I've no scarcity of tone. No need to lay me down, for when I'm only bone, I'd rather look towards trapdoors than sneeze whilst I'm coffin.

Fit noose, my fancy fee
Come again to lift up me
Trapdoor's a breaking
And my feet are falling through.