If you’re tempted to commit suicide,
a friend once told me, you can always
just vanish.

Ah, I said, but I lost my magic wand.

Not that kind of vanishing, dumbass.
I mean
just move away, across
the country
maybe, where no one knows
fucked up you are, where you can
disappear in the crowd. If you do it right,
no one can find you. After a while

they’ll stop looking for you, they’ll forget
all about you. It’ll be like you never existed.

My parents wouldn’t forget, I said.
They would never stop looking for me.

Don’t flatter yourself.
Eventually you’d be dead to them,
as dead as if you pulled the trigger.

But living the rest of my life
among strangers! It doesn’t seem—

They won’t always be strangers.
You’ll have a new name, a new hairstyle,
a new wardrobe. Become someone else.
Remember what Rilke said.

What did Rilke say?

You can change your life.

Killing myself would be a lot less work.

But who is it you’re killing yourself
for? It’s not for you.

Who is it for, then?

You know who. It’s for them.
And you know what, fuck them.
Sure, you’re a mess. Sure, you’re making
their lives miserable. But let all that go.
Just pick up your shit and get out of town.
You don’t know where you’ll end up,
but at least you’ll be alive.