You asked me, "Why?" This single word held a thousand meanings, like the universe holds a thousand suns. Your tears are cold and salty, like the bleak oceans that run along the Eastern Coast. Time has no meaning with this word. Why. I don't know why. Why was I born? Why don't I feel loved? Why did I grow up without a father? Why is there death? Why is there crime? Why is there shame? Why is there a choice? Why am I the way that I am? Why do I feel this way? Why do I hate? Fight? Sin? Lie? Love? Laugh? Why do you cause me so much pain? Misery? Regret? Why am I forever torn, fragile? You try to tell me why, but not even you, the catalyst of chaos, can know. This timeless word can only be answered in death. Only then will I know why. Then I can ask you, God, "Why?"
