Where were you when she took her life?
I was alone, heartbroken, holding a knife.

Why didn't I pull its blade down my arm?
Letting its steel cut me, causing much harm.

You were real to me, before she died.
But, once alone, I saw it was all lied.

I moved on, for years, thinking you as a fake.
I had cast out my beliefs into my minds' lake.

This day I speak to you, with a new found thought;
"Maybe its not lies from which you are wrought."

I'm still unsure, but looking to my past.
You never held my hand, or helped me last.

Not once. Never.  Not a smile, or embrace.
At this rate, I hope one day to look you in the face.

You see, God, as you may in fact be real.
You've taught me yourself that you cannot heal.

You may say you love me, call me your son.
But we are as related as a pen to a gun.

The thought of meeting you one day makes my skin twitch.
Because I fucking hate you, you son of a bitch.