I write this in misery
thinking of you,
drinking,
smoking,
crying,
lying here broken in this
empty room.
I write this as my life slips away,
as my mind fades,
as everything we had
disappeared in an instant of weakness.
In an instant of rage,
in an instant of animal instinct.
I write this as your face creeps into my
mind.
As the vision of your eyes haunts me,
as my face and heart turned to stone.
I write this now and I see
what we were,
what we had,
what you were and what I was.
I know now I was not empty.
I searched for something
I already had.
I wandered for nothing when I had everything.
I write this in misery,
in sorrow as my eyes close and I
look back.
What monster I was,
What torment I bore,
what torture I brought on you
in my anguish made this.
An empty room with nothing
but me,
my bottle,
my pills,
my gun,
and the outline of your body on the floor.
What I tried to prevent,
What I so desperately attempted to conceal
exploded and ended in your death and mine.
I found humanity in the seconds after your
soul left your body,
but lost it when my last connection
to compassion was broken
by the very hands who for so
long toiled to attain stability.
Now my mind is clear and the vision of
your perfect face crushed,
beaten,
destroyed consumes me.
I write this as my life ends.
As in hatred of myself I end
my life.
In death there is peace.
But that peace only comes
after all good has vanished.
