I accused him of many things. I probably shouldn't have done that. Then I asked him what was wrong with me and why he was so cruel to me. Probably shouldn't have done that either.

I cried to him and screaming at him, still asking that one-word question – why? Why am I like this? Why am I treated this way?

Then I said I didn't believe in him. That thought made me realize that I was writing a letter to no one. I stopped writing and threw the letter in a box somewhere. Somewhere, where I thought I would never see it again, never.

I just moved. As I unpacked my boxes I looked through my things, stumbling across things I had forgotten about and memories that no one cared about anymore.

I found an old letter, ripped and smeared, half written.

It was my letter to God.