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He has a little secret, no one else must guess.

He knows his parents would just freak if they found out.

The rope, a belt off an old karate uniform.

The silk slides through his fingers whispering erotic dreams

against trembling flesh.  He measures the length, making

sure that it is just right, not to short, he doesn’t wish to truly die, but not to long or it might be to loose to do the job.  

Obsession has taken over.

Fingers slowly slip the noose round his head and down to

hug with unseemly gentleness against his skin, snug against

his throat. The hangman's knot, a lover's caress on the back

of his neck.  The other end tied to his bedpost.  Silent

posters with empty eyes gaze down upon the boy.  The

paraphernalia, the same that may be in a thousand other boys’ rooms,

pushed aside, so that when he falls, and fall he shall, he

won’t "hurt" himself.  His eyes close as he daydreams of the

feeling, the loss of breath, the darkness descending, and the

rush of final release he has come to crave, this dance with

death he finds he does not wish to resist.