The Rope Becomes Tighter

The Rope Becomes Tighter It hangs there, knot fashioned neatly, calling me like my mother did when I was out past sunset running with the fellas, no girls. We played in the street, living free. I’m not so free, or alive. Each shift, negative contact, complaint, or comment draws it tighter, choking away what minimal air remains. I cannot be sure anyone would bother to cut me down, that alone stings. Much to live for, sure, but for the others, not for me. I watch it sway, back and forth and giggle because the beam it rests on is very weak.