Daily Standard
(Read all about it)
Wake up. Dark. Shit. Shower.
Choose a shirt that’s formal, but loose.
Dab on my perfume. Style my hair.
Tie my laces, my tie, and my noose.
I’ve hung myself for twenty—three years now.
The squeeze’s no longer a bother.
Ignore the times when I drool or shit myself
For I don’t really hang, I hover.
Sometimes it jerks and my legs kick out.
My face turns black and red.
Most of the time I just hang and I choke.
Hung, but not dead.
One day my rope will tighten, like a vice on a thumb.
My head will swell up and pop, like a sore.
But until that day I’ll just choke this way,
Dangling a foot from the floor.
