It's Not Art Until It Hangs

A Short Story

Threads, millions of them, stick from my fingertips in cilial splinters. I tie nooses in my spare time. Where they fray, the rope splits, digs into my fingers like nettles. Like I’m growing fur.

My white shirt has pink smears down the front from where the edges of my hands have accidentally grazed. I forgot to change out of my clothes before I started, a…