Unfinished Exit by Claudia Wysocky

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 

from vacation, from college, 

from life.

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.

A desperate attempt to 

capture something that's already 

gone.

But maybe that's why we keep writing, 

keep searching for 

the right words, 

because in this world where everything is 

temporary, 

poetry is our only chance at 

immortality. 

So even though you haven't 

found the perfect ending yet, 

you keep writing. 

For Catherine, for yourself, for all the lost 

souls 

who never got their own 

missing person's poster. 

Because as long as there are words on a page, 

there is still hope for an unfinished exit to

find its proper 

ending.