Crowed Room

I just want someone to share it with. And now I'm alone. I mean really alone. It's not like I deserve pity; not that I'm looking for it. I mean it's my fault. I'm the one who fucked up.

The poetic tragedy, is that I was willing to leave her... alone. If I wasn't such a fuck up, if I had succeeded, my son, everyone I love would have suffered the loss that I now know. But at least they'd still have each other.

One in a million.

A bullet meant for me.

It would've been easier that way, for everyone. Especially me. I fear, but secretly know, that I'll be alone for the rest of my life. Surrounded by people, a full bed, plates full of food on the table, I'll still be alone.

Karma.

Nothing will ever be the same. It can't be. It shouldn't be. Cliche sayings like, 'You don't know what you have until it's gone' are suddenly poignant.

Any joy, any triumph, will ring hollow without her. No one ever tells you that success is relative. That, for it to have any meaning, you have to have someone there worthy of sharing it with.

The final twist of the knife will be when I finally reach the heights that she always knew I was capable of. She was the only reason to chase success in the first place, so to catch it without holding her hand feels hollow, like trying hold fog in your hands.

Recently a literary agent requested a copy of my book. It's the happiest I've been since coming to prison. Everything seems to be falling into place, all the hard work, beginning to pay off. And I still feel slightly empty.

On a plane, standing room only at the DMV, at a Southern Baptist church on Sunday, or on a stage surrounded by suits, no matter where I stand, for the rest of my life, I'll be all alone.

It's only right...that I'll be alone.