Dear ,
I remember very little. And from what I can draw up from memory is oftentimes out of sequence, or dim remnants of the truth. But I do remember praying, and begging, collapsing on my knees type pleading with palms pressed together in sweat and tears, I remember asking. And perhaps my memory often fails me because God has cast a perpetual shadow against my mind-- to ease the agony that clarity would bring, or perhaps even to forge a gentle image of the God that had fallen ill when I had needed him most to be well and kind. I couldn't tell you how many times I had written letters beginning with Dear God, and I couldn't possibly count the number of times I had spilled over in a terrifying echo of anger, embitterment, constant regret-- it felt like drowning. If one could die from sorrow I imagine I'd have been buried by now, inscribed with black font atop a piece of speckled granite, a bouquet of fake flowers adorning the soil. I imagine they'd be just about as fake as the smile I wore that year, but even so more real than I had ever been to my own faults. I believe the most difficult thing in this world is recognizing that it's not all about you. And I don't care what they all say, no matter how many times the words "everything happens for a reason" have formulated and attempted to mold within my tiny ears. You were the only thing I had ever come to know, the only fear I have ever felt and the only love I would never fully understand or reciprocate the way I should have. You are the deepest feelings of regret, the hauntings of my dreams and the only path to happiness that has been abandoned and now untraceable. You are the world crumbling beneath me, you are the symbol of what I lack and what I will never have: you are everything. And I don't care what they all say. Give me a different reason. I'm asking God for another ending.