All of the Knots

Hanging oneself is a crude method to die. But if I ever needed to,

there are objects I would

and would not use.

I would use a rope, because that is boring. Or some thick, black cords, because that is not difficult. Shoelaces would work well because that would be worthless.

But the things I would not use are numerous and harder to find, because they hide in plain sight.

I would not use the fragile teardrops that shy away yet blossom from rigid words.

Nor would I use the rotating and polished barbed wire that orbits the sides of our heads like a mobile, capturing their thick skulls like a locked box.

One should never use the bent, worn-out and stringy ear buds that dangle like spaghetti from oveworn bright clothing and plastic jackets.

I would never use those strikingly exquisite flowers that sit so perfectly erect in the greenest garden, tended for like a newborn baby until its wilting.

I would never use the meticulously-rosined, broken bow hairs that snap like a tight wire when the notes are precisely performed, leaving a plum of extra rosin that drifts in and around the strings.

No, I could never tie the plastic-injected compliments of those around me to form a noose, for they are already so transparent.

Neither could I fashion that lovely knot with the silence that already hangs itself when the funeral proceeds.

No, for I would not use those, for they have far less meaning and purpose

than those exciting, thought-provoking objects that

all choose to tie their last knot with.