Unfinished Exit

I keep thinking 

about the time in high school 

when you drew 

me 

a map of the city— 

I still have it somewhere. 

It was so easy 

to get lost 

in a place where all the trees 

look the same. 

And now 

every time I see 

a missing person's poster 

stapled to a pole, 

all I can think is 

that could have been me— 

Missing, 

disappeared. 

But there are no

posters for people 

who just never came back 

and you haven't killed yourself 

because you'd have to commit 

to a single exit.

What you wouldn't give 

to be your cousin Catherine,

who you watched 

twice in one weekend 

get strangled nude in a bathtub 

onstage, by the actor who once 

filled your mouth with quarters 

at your mother's funeral.

The curtains closed 

and opened again. 

We applauded until 

our hands were sore.

But you couldn't shake the image 

of her lifeless body—

the way she hung there 

like a marionette 

with cut strings.

And now 

every time you try 

to write a poem, 

it feels like a 

eulogy.