A Razor to the Throat Ought to Do It-Jill Alexander Essbaum
Anyone here had a go at themselves / for a laugh? “I Say I Say I Say” by Simon Armitage but if a blood oath’s not your wrecking pleasure, give this sassy trick a spin: lay your body down upon the goosefeather bed and just pretend that you are dead. It’s worked before, oh hasn’t it? Suffer your eyes shut tight as a lock-box, lest any mystery grief slip out. Do you doubt that you can do it? Try talking yourself through it. With conviction to befit the desperately diseased, recite your plan to the mattress springs: Breath, be held in the flinch of these wrists, for you squirm from my grip like a kitten. Close enough for hand grenades, or the ravel of the hangman’s noose, which-shall I remind you?-slipped loose from the fist of your head like a misthrown punch. Some luck. Now, plug your throat with a well-poisoned plum. You’ll perish seven deaths while you’re waiting for the Prince. He never comes to kiss it out. That dim, grim, bother of a rib. Piss on him. You’re best off alone. You shall star in a Single-Woman Show. Act One, Disappearing Do. Bow to your own, grand rounds of applause. Did I say rounds? You could manage by a solitary bullet. They’ll putty up your skull with plaster. What a laugh. Quel disastre! You’ll take the very cake away. Your famous face will proceed every parade. You will be saved. And no one ought feel smug enough to blame you. Neither will they call you by your given name, Queen Bee. You can hive out the span of your rotting spree in a golden tomb, a Drone (not unlike the other ones) to comb through the honey of your tears. That could take years, conceivably. But to that end, God promises a pretty room in which to wait. A nice place, really. Quiet, if a tad sight cramped and chilly. Remarkable, though. All roses and balloons. Truly, it should swoon you to it, blissfully senseless, drunk as if you’ve swigged it from the oven’s hissing whisper. Swell touch, if your note is cryptically composed. Suchlike your own, bereaved life, it’s left for the scholars to somehow surmise. How bravely you held on until finally-you died- in your sad little bed on that trash of a night. But you’re simply pretending. Right?
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