You knew me once, or at least, I hope you did.
You had so many ideals for me to follow, too many for a toddler to keep straight.
In fact, did you even say any of them?
You never told me, so I've only known from your old letters.
And when I looked, I found so many contradictions.
You kill, and you smile. You hate the majority and select only a few to love. When they don't follow your impossible demands, you kill them too.
Come to think of it, you kill just as many people who follow your instructions to the letter.
I've tried asking; I'm asking you now. Why? Who are you? How can I accept you as a loving friend and a deadly enemy?
And you never answer.
Slowly, I've realized: you never answered me. Not once.
You only speak to old men, the insane, and those you twist to your own purpose. Even then, you haven't said anything in my lifetime.
My parents still take me to visit, every week.
I walk over the steps and try to find you. I look around the rooms, and see only cobwebs.
I mouth the words to your favorite music, and all I hear is a hum.
I don't see you anywhere.
Somebody hands me a cup of your blood, and without thinking, I drink.
The only taste is wine.
I walk back every week, searching for you, in what slowly becomes a mausoleum.
And eventually, after years of wondering, I ask the empty air:
When did you leave?
Were you even here at all?