You stand inside the same portrait of illusion,
crowded by people,
alone in the loudest way.
What agony — to live with your own hands tightening the knot,
wanting more than the height of your toes allows.
Which of them will notice their old life strangling,
I don’t know.
No one reaches for the rope.
No one tries to cut you down.
But they’re all there, in a simulacrum of expectation.
You are more wrong about me than anyone else.
I disbelieve in hope. Only the rope.

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